


The Peasant King

by Virgo827



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arthur is Not a Complete Prat, Attempt at Humor, But kind of is, Druids, F/M, Magic, Post-Episode s03e10 Queen of Hearts, Prophetic Dreams
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-15 23:09:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9262775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Virgo827/pseuds/Virgo827
Summary: Post 3x10, Queen of Hearts. Merlin, Arthur, and Gwen have fled Camelot in the wake of Morgana's fake love enchantment. Arthur has given up his throne to start a new life in a small village. But as he struggles to adjust and reconcile his sense of duty with his own happiness, Merlin has a sinking feeling Morgana's machinations have not yet come to their conclusion...





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hi :)  
> This is the first fanfic I ever wrote - yes, I know I have another in-progress on my page, and I am still working on it, but I started this one first, my original dipping-the-toes-in to the fanfiction community, so it has a special place in my heart, even if I look back at some of the writing and cringe a bit. Half this one is already written (and posted at FFNet, but that one's not edited really). I just needed a break from my other WIPs so I decided to edit and attempt to finish this one.  
> Hope y'all enjoy!  
> PS let me know if something I say in this story is too American, I'd love to fix it so I don't bring people out of the story at all.  
> PPS I hope starting off with some OCs doesn't put anyone off. There won't be anymore POVs from an OC, after this it's all from our main characters. And there are necessarily OCs in the story, because it takes place partly outside of Camelot, but I hope they're not overbearing or anything, let me know if you think they're too much of a focus.  
> The Merlin fandom on FF is so nice and encouraging so I bet/hope this one is too!!

**PROLOGUE**

 

 

 

The autumn night is fading to black and speckled with stars, not a cloud in sight. The full moon hangs low and fat in the eastern sky. An auspicious omen for a wedding, Gerun thinks.

 

He turns back to Yaissa. She nods at him and glances back to the moon. "The date was chosen well. The Triple Goddess has her finger on this bride. Lucky girl."

 

Gerun resists the urge to raise a skeptical brow. Omens are well and good, but sometimes he finds it difficult to see the signs and portents that the healer claims are abundant in the sky and the forest. After all, the girl had only thrown some bones in the stone circle. Yaissa had taken one look and proclaimed the wedding would be held in two weeks' time. She'd known the moon would be full this night.

 

He opens his mouth to speak, but shakes his head and shuts it again. There is a reason Gerun is a chieftain, and not a sage.

 

Yaissa seems to know his thoughts. As usual. She tuts at him. "How many winters have I been a healer in your clan, Gerun? I pulled you into this world, boy. On a night as dark as this is bright." She rests her wrinkled, knobbly hand against his cheek. "I told your mother to birth a boy on a new moon meant he had a long path ahead of him, fighting through the darkness."

 

_Darkness. If only Mother had known how true the healer's words would prove to be._

 

"Now I know more. Boys born to the new moon are stubborn as mules."

 

Gerun can’t help himself. A gruff laugh escapes. But he still feels the heavy shadow of Yaissa's predictions. The whole damn realm is in darkness. His people are hunted, his gift is punishable by death, and Uther still keeps his iron grip on his forefather's land.

 

"Despite what you think, Yaissa, I _am_ a druid. I do trust in our people's traditions. In you. I just… struggle to see beyond the mire we find ourselves in now." The chieftain turns to the healer suddenly, struck by a passing thought.

 

"When I was a boy, after Mother… you would tell me stories before I slept to help me pass the night. I don't remember all of them, but there was one…"

 

Gerun doesn’t quite know what he is asking. For hope, perhaps? A flame against the endless dark?

 

Yaissa's grey eyes are lit with an ethereal glow in the moonlight. She studies him intently and Gerun tries not to squirm.

 

_Get a hold of yourself. You're a man now, wedded and chief of your tribe. For spirit's sake, you have children of your own that you turn this look upon!_

 

Gerun shifts on his feet and Yaissa smiles. "Even after all these years, you surprise me," she whispers. When she continues, her tone is clearer and stronger, with all the cadence of a story well told.

 

"You speak of Emrys."

 

The name echoes in his head and through the years. He'd heard the name as a babe in his mother's lap, and as an orphan at Yaissa's knee. He'd heard it cursed by bitter old women and praised by prideful young men.

 

"In ages past, the High Priestesses looked to the sky and saw the web of fate laid out in the stars. The constellations cycled above, predicting the turn of the seasons, and the wanderers drifted between, shaping events in their path. And the greatest seer of that ancient time felt a shift in the magic and secluded herself deep in the wild woods, atop a lone hill from which she studied the sky every night for a year. And when she returned to her tribe, she told them what was to come."

 

With a bony finger, Yaissa traces the outline of the great white orb, suspended over the horizon. Her voice drops a notch, lower and somehow more hypnotic. "When darkness floods the land, when tyranny rules its people, when the old magic gasps its dying breaths, he will come. Emrys - the greatest sorcerer who has ever lived and will ever live. He will bring magic back to the land with the Once and Future King, Gerun, and sweep our enemies away."

 

Gerun shivers and tries to rub the inexplicable gooseprickles on his arms away. "Do you - do you really believe he will come in our lifetime? The prophecy seems to recall our history, our present… but every fool believes a prophecy will happen for him to see."

 

The healer's smile is mischievous. "I do indeed, my boy. There are not many seers left to our people. But I have heard whispers from the Goddess. He lives, Gerun. Now."

 

"Wh - you mean he's already here? Then where the bloody hell is he? Uther's going to hunt us to extinction at this rate unless he steps in!"

 

"I am not omniscient, Gerun. And there is more to the prophecy than you know." The smile drops to be replaced by annoyance. "You are practical to a fault sometimes. I have just told you that the most powerful sorcerer in existence lives and all you can utter is foul language?"

 

Rubbing a hand down his face, Gerun sighs. "No, no. You're right. He must have his reasons. I guess. Not my place and all."

 

"Perhaps he was born on a new moon as well. Too stubborn to see what's right in front of him." Yaissa's voice is teasing.

 

He wants to continue, to demand everything Yaissa knows of Emrys, but she turns away as several of the women approach. He follows her aimlessly, over to the nervous groom, his mind still whirring over the possibilities. Is Emrys his real name? Or does he simply go by it, like an odd sobriquet of sorts? How on earth could a seer from a thousand years ago predict what some lass was going to name her child now?

 

Is Yaissa just pulling the wool over his eyes?

 

Stung at the thought, and shamed over even thinking it, Gerun pulls his attention back to the young man in front of him.

 

"Your bride awaits you beneath the rowan tree," Yaissa tells him.

 

The groom is a strapping young lad, with a crown of golden hair and broad shoulders. His arms are thicker and muscled, as if he had worked a field or a smithy for most of his life, but he lacks callouses in the proper places and his skin is smooth and unscarred. No burns from the forge. Uncommonly handsome and well-spoken for a peasant.

 

All of which had caused Gerun to conclude he was highborn. A third or fourth son, run off with a girl his father wouldn't approve of. Or some lord's by-blow, a bastard raised like a highborn but never having a place in the court or society.

 

He'd named himself as Arthur, but Gerun isn’t sure if it is the name his mother gave him. The lad might've borrowed it from the Prince, fancying himself of a physical likeness. The smallfolk talked, though, and Gerun knows the Prince is a sight bigger and taller than the average man, rugged and powerful. Or so Yaissa's mousy grandniece had said, as she swooned and dreamed of Camelot.

 

Gerun doesn’t much care where a man hails from. He puts more stock in how they treat others. The lad had been tender and charmingly bashful with his bride-to-be. But with the others in the camp, he had at first been wary, standoffish, and almost downright disapproving. Gerun had kept a close eye on him. Prejudice against magic has poisoned the heart of Camelot and much of its surrounding countryside, and the young man had made him nervous.

 

Nothing came to pass, and eventually his demeanor had mellowed. Especially towards Yaissa, which was no surprise, after she healed his betrothed.

 

He can’t quite read the young man's attitude toward their companion, the black-haired one. Marlin? No… Merlin.

 

They joked like friends, fought like brothers, and bickered like Yaissa and her husband. At first, Gerun had shrugged it off. But as the weeks passed, Gerun finally put his finger on what piqued his curiosity about the boys, and what convinced him beyond any doubt they were of differing status.

 

Gerun gets the impression Merlin lives to contradict - orders and expectations. The lad is slightly awkward, but likable, friendly and open. Spirits, the boy can talk. And complain. Arthur seems to put up with the chatter for the most part, with affected ill humor. But there always comes a point, underneath the contrary attitude, that Merlin cedes to Arthur's wishes. Like an apprentice. Or a servant.

 

And Arthur has the unique ability to make any statement sound like an order. Gerun would bet a month's supply of Yaissa's stash of sweetwine that he'd been giving them since birth.

 

With Yaissa's word of his bride, however, the lad looks less sure of himself then Gerun has ever seen. Gone is the easy grace and confidence. All that is left is a young man facing his imminent wedding. He chuckles to himself. Before he'd joined Serra at the foot of his own rowan tree, he'd nearly gotten sick all over his feet.

 

Arthur turns to his companion. "Merlin, I… maybe you should go talk to Guinevere. She might need more time. In fact, I'm sure of it. Go see if she needs help. She's not familiar with these traditions and she might not even want to—"

 

He cuts himself off and goes paler in the dim light. "Oh gods, Merlin, what if she doesn't want to get married like this? Her brother's not here, and Mor - ahem, my sister, and—"

 

Merlin claps both his hands on Arthur's shoulders. "Arthur." The boy's voice is steady and calm. He's clearly had practice talking his friend out of a few emotional quandaries.

 

"Guinevere loves you. She doesn't care where you're married, only that you are. You are blessed to have such a woman care for you." The cheeky boy lightly slaps the other's face. "So what in the five kingdoms are you waiting for, you big dollophead?"

 

Arthur knocks his arm away with a shaky laugh. "You'd better mark this moment down in Gaius's history books, Merlin. For once in your life, you're right."

 

The young men clasp forearms, like warriors on the cusp of battle, before heading off in the direction of the rowan tree. Yaissa and Gerun come after. The healer is the closest thing their camp has to a sage anymore to give the blessing. Gerun damns the king only once in his thoughts before focusing on the blessed event. A joining means there is still a future to hope for.

 

The bride is resplendent in her maiden's cloak. Though the fabric is old and gently worn, the quality is incomparable. The pale blue garment had been sewn in a time when the druids did not hide in the forest but lived in it, and traded with the towns and cities within Camelot -  before Uther's brutal unification. Woven with seed pearls in a delicate lattice, the hood of the cloak partially covers the bride's face, until her groom pulls it back and settles it on her shoulders.

 

Guinevere is smiling tremulously, her dark eyes shining as she looks up to her husband-to-be. The two do not turn their gazes from each other as Yaissa begins to intone the blessing. She threads a braided red cord around their shared grip, Arthur's strong, pale hand clasping Guinevere's smaller and darker one.

 

"May the sun shine on your dwelling, and the moon guide your passage through the forest. May your sons grow strong, and your daughters wise. May you travel the path together, and may your spirits meet again in the Land Beyond the Water."

 

Yaissa's voice rings through the clearing. Nearly the whole camp is assembled to witness the joining. Gerun watches several older women clutch at the crystals hanging from the ribbons round their necks, gifts from their husbands after years of faithful marriage. Moira, the elderly widow, breathes the last part of the blessing along with the healer.

 

A young apprentice hands Yaissa a bundle of herbs, smoking fitfully at one end. He can’t quite identify the odor, but it calls back memories of Yaissa's healing tent and the lost boy he had been.

 

The healer weaves the herbs and smoke through the air in an inscrutable pattern. Finally, she turns and bows to the rowan tree, and waves for the wedded pair to do the same.

 

"Let it be known that this man and woman, Arthur and Guinevere, have been joined before the Tree. Chief Gerun's clan and tribe bear witness, as does the Triple Goddess." A smile breaks forth from the healer's withered lips, crinkling her eyes and cheeks. "Go forth and celebrate this blessed union."

 

A rousing cheer goes up from the gathered tribe. Esun, Pimell, and the other young men are particularly rowdy with their calls and whistles, before carving a path through the crowd straight for the sweetwine Yaissa had provided and the queer clear liquor Bena had traded for with a band of smugglers.

 

The newly wedded couple trails after the revelers, laughing and grinning at each other. Yaissa watches them go with a fond half-smile and wistful eye.

 

"Will you be accompanying me to the celebration?" Gerun asks.

 

"For a short while. Until this knee of mine complains enough to send me to my tent." To Gerun's surprise, she catches Merlin by the shoulder before he can leave.

 

"Is there something you need my help with, Yaissa?" the boy says, his head tilted in question.

 

"No, you sweet boy. I simply would like to give you a piece of advice, if you would have it."

 

Gerun goes to step away for some semblance of privacy, but Yaissa holds him fast by the arm. He gives her a puzzled look, but she doesn’t release her grip.

 

"Of course." His blue eyes are earnest and curious.

 

"Since you arrived, I knew you would not remain with us for long. You will leave the camp soon." Yaissa steps closer, forcing the boy's much taller frame to crane his neck down.

 

"You and your companions are running. From the past and from duty and from pain. But know this, young sorcerer. For the sake of the future, you must return."

 

_Wait… sorcerer?_ Gerun's mind is spinning. Merlin appears similarly shocked and bewildered, as if he's just been hit over the head with a particularly heavy tree branch. Then his blue eyes flash with some dark emotion.

 

"You don't understand. We can't go back! She'll kill us - well, he'll kill us… now that I think of it, too many people would like to kill us! I have to protect Arthur and Gwen." Merlin's voice is edged with desperation, and anger makes him perhaps a touch louder than he should be.

 

Yaissa waves off his excuses like so many buzzing flies. "Listen to me before you speak. Patience is a virtue you young people would do well to cultivate," she mutters before continuing. "I am not telling you to return tomorrow or even in a fortnight. But the day will dawn sooner than you expect. Events are in motion, even now. The joining of your companions is only the most recent in the cascade of fate. The future of these lands, and of magic itself, rests on their shoulders and on yours. Especially yours."

 

The significant glances exchanged between the two leave Gerun more confused than before, if that is possible. Merlin seems to know her intent. He nods at her, solemn and slow.

 

"Go now, and join your friends. And remember - you always have an ally in the druids. You would be welcome in this clan and any other. But first you must acknowledge who you are."

 

Yaissa allows the boy to leave. Gerun studies his retreating back for a long moment. Old words and old stories flit through his mind. He can smell the smoke of the healer's herbs, lingering in the air. "Magic itself, Yaissa?"

 

Yaissa nods at him. There is so much meaning in that single motion that Gerun fights to breathe. _He's just a boy._ The chieftain sighs. _And of an age with you when you first claimed this tribe and these people as your own._

 

"Well. Perhaps a new age is dawning after all."

  


 


	2. Arthur I

 

 

Arthur watches the early morning sunlight begin to filter through the window. How many times had he slept through the dawn in Camelot? Waking to the stunning sight of the sun crowning the eastern horizon is a recently discovered pleasure. A benefit of the peasantry. As far as he is concerned, the only benefit of his new life.

 

Other than his wife. Of course. The dark-haired beauty, curled into his side, shifts in her sleep. Arthur smiles and closes his eyes, content to drink in the warmth and familiarity of morning in the home they made together.

 

The small, simple shack is a far cry from the magnificent stonewalls and battlements of Camelot. No sumptuous bedcovers, only thin wool ones, cover their skin. Feather pillows have been stuffed with straw instead. There are no servants to wait on the Prince hand and foot, to mend his clothes and prepare his meals and bow their heads as he passes.

 

Yet it seems the Prince hasn't managed to escape from his annoyingly persistent manservant.

 

"Rise and shine!"

 

The cheerful voice rings dissonant in the peaceful air. Even though Merlin has long since stopped being a servant, there are a few habits that have been difficult to break. Irritating the Prince being one of them.

 

With his eyes still closed, he mutters, "One of these days, Merlin, I'll have you executed." Just because Arthur enjoys the beauty of the dawn doesn’t mean he has to get out of bed to do it.

 

Merlin laughs nervously. "Only the Prince can have me executed. And we're far away from Camelot, Arthur."

 

Of course. Just as Merlin is no longer a servant, Arthur is no longer a prince.

 

He opens his eyes and meets Gwen's gaze, an amused smile on her face. Arthur feels a returning smile curve his lips. She is the reason he'd given up his claim to sovereignty. And he'd never regretted it, not for a moment. Not when he wakes up every morning in her arms.

 

"He's right, Arthur. We should get up. There is much to do at the forge today." Gwen reminds him gently.

 

Ever since they settled in this village, Guinevere has been instructing him in the methods and techniques of blacksmithing. They'd bought the small forge from an old man looking to retire his trade, with the money Arthur had brought from Camelot. _Not_ stolen, no matter what Merlin says. It was his money, after all. His father… Uther had provided him with an allotment of sorts for many years. And unlike his manservant, he hadn't spent all his extra coin in the tavern.

 

Learning the art of blacksmithing is a slow and frustrating process, but she has endless patience with him, even though he _might_ have turned out to be a challenging pupil. His skill has progressed considerably in spite of all. She plans to progress to bladesmithing next, something of a specialty of her late father's.

 

The thought of once again gripping the hilt of a sword in his now calloused hands spurs Arthur out of bed with an uncharacteristic grin. He catches sight of Merlin's baffled expression and Gwen's surprised one.

 

"What? I thought you wanted me to get up!"

 

"I did. I just didn't expect you to be so chipper about it." Merlin looks suddenly wary. "Are you plotting something?"

 

Arthur laughs, clapping him on the shoulder. "Oh, Merlin."

 

Leaving that ominous statement to hang, Arthur disappears into the other room. The rough-hewn wooden table rests in the middle of the small area, the cooking stove to the left, and Merlin's cot to the right.

 

"That wasn't an answer!" Merlin calls after him.

 

"I know."

 

Merlin grumbles but follows him, preparing a fire in the hearth while Arthur steps outside to fetch more wood from the stockpile around the back of their modest home. They complete the morning chores in an easy harmony, with the air of a routine well practiced. Gwen boils eggs to break their fast and warms some mulled wine over the crackling fire. Merlin putters around, making beds and setting out Arthur's clothing.

 

Arthur ducks back into the front room, rubbing his hands at the brisk air, as Merlin gently lays his trousers on the quilt. He raises an eyebrow. "You know, Merlin, I don't understand why you still insist on doing that. You always make a point to remind me that I've joined the ranks of the peasantry."

 

With a grin, Merlin glances up and replies, "Habit, I guess. Nothing wrong with keeping a sense of normality."

 

"That's not normal any longer. If anyone saw you doing that they'd think… well, they'd probably think that I have delusions of grandeur or something. Being a simple blacksmith and all." Arthur snorts.

 

"You do have delusions of grandeur."

 

"That's preposterous. They aren't delusions."

 

"Well if you insist on acting like a royal prat, I insist on treating you like a royal prat. With or without the title." Merlin laughs and skips out of the room before Arthur can smack him. The reminder stings a little, despite his firmly held conviction in the worth of their new life. _I made the right choice. Guinevere’s life means more to me than a kingship ever shall._

 

He sighs and sits down, hoping Guinevere can salvage his mood. But she just gives him a _look_ , like his father used to give he and Morgana when he'd caught them fighting at supper under the table.

 

"He—"

 

"Don't start, Arthur. You both act like children." Her words are stern, but he sees a smile slip onto her face as she turns away to fetch the wine from the fire.

 

Merlin only returns in time to snatch a boiled egg on the way to the forge. The ex-prince and his measly retinue wind through the dirt streets of the small village. As they pass the large cleared area that serves as the town square, Arthur squints at the lack of vendors and stalls. "Where is everyone?" he asks.

 

"Market day in Willoughby, I believe. You remember. That town we stopped in and met the blacksmith Marcus," Gwen answers. At Arthur's confused look, she rolls her eyes. "You must remember Marcus. He's the one who told us that Old Ironhands was looking for a young man to take over his forge."

 

Merlin shudders. "Old Ironhands. He did _not_ like me."

 

"You're lucky I was here. He'd have never turned his forge over to the likes of you." Arthur chuckles, remembering the grizzled, wrinkled man that Marcus had warned them of, with hands that could've wrapped all the way around Merlin's neck.

 

"I only asked him how old he was."

 

Gwen laughs. "Merlin, you have a gift. You can make any question sound impertinent."

 

"Both of you sound like Gaius," Merlin complains. Then he quiets, and Arthur knows why when he glances over. A lonely, faraway look always comes into Merlin's eye when he thinks of the court physician.

 

Guinevere nudges him and motions to Merlin's back. Arthur tries to silently convey that he was _already_ going to say something without her nagging, and would she just _give_ him a minute, but decides he has not succeeded when Gwen's lips press together in a firm line.

 

Arthur clears his throat and strides forward. "Once I forge a sword, Merlin, you're going to have no excuses."

 

"What?"

 

"Well, I'm going to need to make sure it's balanced correctly. That it'll hold up in a fight." Merlin still seems perplexed. Arthur can’t help but laugh. He slings an arm around his shoulder.

 

"I'll need someone to train with. And you're just the man for the job."

 

The comforting sound of Merlin’s whining carries the trio all the way to the forge. The sturdy building, all thick logs and square sides, sits just off the eastern road leading into the town of Colembria. More of a village, in Arthur's opinion, coming from the great city of Camelot as he did. But the people of Colembria like to refer to the farming settlement as a town.

 

Village or town, Colembria has given them a new beginning. And Arthur intends to make the most of it.

 

He greets Alric with a nod as he ducks through the low entrance. The lad had arrived early and started up the fires. Alric is short and stocky, with a thick head of muddy brown hair. He and Merlin are as different in appearance as they are in temperament. Alric is steady, quiet, and calm. What he lacks in talent, he makes up for in diligence. Arthur has taken to giving Alric pointers and talking him through his movements as he shapes the metal. He finds that it improves his own technique, and Alric soaks up the lessons with characteristic wide-eyed silence.

 

Merlin says Arthur likes Alric so much because he can listen to the sound of his own voice all day. The idiot has no appreciation for the patience and skill required for the art of blacksmithing. That is why he is restricted to operating the bellows. Arthur doesn’t trust him with sharp objects or molten metal.

 

He is so engrossed in mentally reviewing Guinevere's lessons regarding how many times the iron ore should be heated that he doesn’t hear Jacob cross the threshold of the forge.

 

"Good day, Art!"

 

Arthur curses as he nearly drops the cask of redhot iron on his own foot. "By the king's withered old—"

 

"What Arthur means to say is hello, Jacob." Merlin grins easily.

 

"Actually, I meant to say don't call me Art," he growls, setting the cask back onto the anvil to let it cool again. Alric snorts softly.

 

Jacob is not fazed by his grumpy manner. The boy waves him away with a careless gesture of his hand and turns to Merlin. "Good day to you too, Merlin!" If Alric is Merlin’s opposite, Jacob possesses his most annoying qualities.

 

"Why do you use his full name?" Arthur mutters. Jacob usually drops by every few days to bring them some of his sister's mince pies, ever since Arthur had forged several shoes for their team of mules, free of charge. It had been a rough winter after Jacob's father had passed, and with the planting imminent they'd needed the mules for tilling. And Arthur had figured that he needed to convince the townsfolk of his skill before he could get any sort of steady trade.

 

He appreciates the pies in any case. Merlin's cooking skills leave much to be desired. Gwen is too occupied, between instructing him in the forge and tending to the sewing and embroidering, to bring he and Merlin dinner as well. Apparently, the seamstress skills she'd picked up as a princess's handmaiden are quite valuable to the well-to-do ladies in such a backwater area of Essetir. There aren’t many in the village, but they seem to fancy themselves courtesans of the wheatfields and barley rows. She has been receiving orders from as far off as Flintbridge lately.

 

True to form, Jacob tosses a carefully wrapped basket of hot pies onto the sturdy workbench, knocking a hammer to the dirt floor. At Arthur's pointed glare, Merlin picks it up, flicking him a sheepish smile.

 

Jacob chatters mindlessly at a solemn Alric while Arthur strolls over to the bench. He selects two of the largest pastries from the bunch while elbowing Merlin out of the way.

 

"Clara says she's taking me with her to Flintbridge for the next market day, can you believe that? I suppose with the harvest being in and all and Brynn so busy with picking stupid flowers for Thenna that she needs all the help she can get, and so I told her—"

 

Thankfully, Merlin cuts him off. Arthur heaves a sigh of relief and bites into the savory pie.

 

"I thought Clara wanted to make the trip up north to Hawthorne. She mentioned that their market draws a higher price for barley," Merlin comments.

 

 _How does he remember the details of Jacob’s long-winded rambles?_ It boggles the mind.

 

"Oh, no. Not anymore. Clara doesn't want to risk it."

 

"Risk what?" Arthur asks. The last thing he wants to do is encourage the boy, but his words snag Arthur's attention.

 

"Our aunt lives up in Hawthorne. She said Cenred's soldiers have been coming through and rounding up men. Clara doesn't want me to be anywhere near." Jacob gives an exasperated sigh at his sister's evident overprotectiveness. "As if they'd want anything to do with me. I've never even swung a sword."

 

Arthur's heart skips a beat. Cenred is conscripting men? What for? To march on Camelot?

 

"Cenred is massing his forces?" he demands. Jacob blinks wide hazel eyes at him. "Do you have any notion of the numbers—"

 

"Well, it sounds like Clara might have a point." Merlin says loudly, over Arthur. "You'll have to let me know if Flintbridge has any good apothecaries. I've been looking for some yarrow and rue. Hard to come by on this side of the Northern Tail."

 

Jacob nods eagerly. Merlin refuses to meet Arthur's angry gaze. He forces himself to hold his tongue until the lanky lad has sauntered out. When Alric moves off to shape some simple horseshoes, Arthur grabs Merlin by the upper arm and drags him off to the side of the bellows.

 

"He could have had valuable information about Cenred's forces!"

 

Merlin's blue eyes are narrowed. "I seriously doubt it. Jacob's aunt probably didn't scout the enemy line, Arthur. The boy's liable to exaggerate anyway."

 

Arthur concedes the point with a grunt. "But still - if Cenred is massing his soldiers, we need some reliable information."

 

Merlin frowns. "Do we?"

 

"What? Of course we do! They could be planning to march on Camelot!"

 

His former manservant sighs. "Look, Arthur. I know you're worried about Camelot, and your father, and - and Morgana. But this isn't your responsibility anymore. You gave that up with your title."

 

"You can't tell me that you're not curious about what Cenred's planning. And of course I'm worried. This is my kingdom, Merlin!" Arthur insists.

 

"Your father's kingdom. And he has plenty of advisors, and soldiers, and scouts to keep watch on his borders. He did this for years before you were born."

 

Arthur doesn’t want Merlin's careful reasoning. He isn’t used to watching the battle from afar. As a prince of Camelot, he was in the thick of things. Matters of strategy, warfare, and foreign politics were all discussed over bread and butter. He wants to know what is happening.

 

Merlin's expression softens a bit as he studies Arthur. "A peasant would not be concerned with the location and numbers of Cenred's army - beyond hoping that soldiers would not tread anywhere near their village. Keep that in mind."

 

Arthur nods wordlessly.

 

He breaks the tip off the sword he attempts to forge that day. On the short walk home, he nearly falls flat on his arse tripping over a rut on the road. Guinevere keeps exchanging worried glances with Merlin throughout dinner.

 

He knows that Camelot is no longer his concern. But Jacob's thoughtless words tumble through his head.

 

When he falls asleep that night, Arthur dreams of his father, sitting alone on his throne in a pit of snakes.

 

 

  
  
  



	3. Leon I

  


"Blond, you say? Built all strong-like?" The barkeep gives an annoyed huff. "Not seen no lad like that round here. My daughter would'a noticed too. Damned girl won't stop battin' her eyes at any bloke come by these parts with a sword. Thinks some knight'll come strolling through town one day and whisk her away on the back of his horse."

 

The disheveled man scrubs at his nose with the palm of his hand, coughs up phlegm in his throat, and spits onto the tavern floor. Leon tries not to grimace.

 

"Mind you, I'm not holdin' my breath. Poor girl takes after her mother."

 

If his side of the family are the comely ones, Leon never wants to meet the girl's mother. It is past time to move on from this backwater village on the edges of the Northern Plains. But he'd lingered anyway, drawing out the patrol and irritating his men. He'd been so sure the Prince would head this direction, fleeing toward Mercia or farther north to Gawant.

 

The knight tries not to let the disappointment show on his face. "I appreciate your time and effort." He tosses a copper toward the barkeep, who snatches it from the air with unexpected agility. "Many thanks."

 

The grizzled man nods genially. "Hope you find the lad. His father's like to give 'im a good beatin' when he finally shows his face again."

 

For a moment, the image of Uther Pendragon bending a grown Arthur in ringmail over his knee makes Leon choke with restrained laughter and horror. He coughs and gives a noncommittal noise as he hurries through the tavern.

 

Edric is waiting for him outside. "That didn't take long," the shorter knight observes. He eyes Leon. "No good news, then."

 

The knight in command shakes his head dejectedly. "Hadn't seen any man matching the description. It'd be easier if I knew for sure what name the prince was going by… but who knows? And I do not fancy asking around after a missing Arthur when the whole of Camelot knows the prince is gone."

 

 _Why couldn't you have told me where you planned to go, Arthur?_ The thought of the prince not trusting in Leon's loyalty is a constant, stinging pain in his chest. _I wouldn't have betrayed your secret._

 

"Merlin could have given him a new identity. Mayhaps he has just discovered the existence of his little brother, Marlon."

 

Edric cackles at his own joke and Leon's heavy mood cannot smother a smile at Arthur's expense. "I can't imagine the Prince agreeing to that."

 

"The fact that Merlin can get him to agree to half of his ridiculous schemes continues to astound me. It could happen. Prince Marlon of Camelot. Rather nice ring to it, don't you think?"

 

"If you fancy keeping your head attached to your neck, don't ever say that in front of Prince Arthur."

 

Edric's mouth forms a thin, hard line. "Assuming we ever find him. Leon, we can't keep the men here any longer. They wish to return to Camelot and their families, and our patrol is past due for reporting to the king."

 

"I know, Edric. I do. I just… need to find Arthur. He has to return to Camelot." Morgana's pale countenance seems to smirk at him in his mind's eye.

 

The scene Leon had interrupted at supper several weeks past still unnerves him. The Lady Morgana had been speaking to the king in a low, smooth voice. He hadn't caught all of her words. But as he approached the king to inform him of a last minute change in his patrol's imminent departure, he'd heard enough to worry.

 

"…saddens me to see you so distraught over Arthur's abandonment, my lord. And it shames me to know that my own handmaiden was complicit in his betrayal. To have Arthur so corrupted by magic—"

 

She cut herself off as Leon drew close, pale green eyes slightly narrowed. The lady's attraction has always struck Leon as a distant sort of pull. Ethereal and cold, like the jagged beauty of a winter landscape. In that heartbeat, he'd sensed absolutely no warmth in her. He'd wondered how the king could look into her face and simply give her a vague, sad smile. Leon himself had to fight not to recoil at the uncharacteristic frost in her expression.

 

The Lady's intentions are not clear. But Leon cannot shake his unease. With the departure of Arthur, the king alternates between unfocused melancholy and snappish, heated anger. His ward, however, seems to carry herself with the old confidence that had been lacking since the nightmares had begun to plague her more frequently. She is apparently not fazed by the suddenness of Arthur and her handmaiden's departure. The knight does not know what to make of her unsettling composure.

 

His companion glances at him from the corner of his eye. "I know you must feel responsible for him. He's trained under you for years, Leon. But the prince must make his own way in the world."

 

A surge of annoyance overwhelms him. Edric had only come to the city a few years ago, from the western reaches of Camelot, nearer to Caerleon than the citadel. He knew the prince as a headstrong young man. But Leon had watched Arthur as a blond boy in the training yard, swinging his wooden sword around with a precocious ferocity. The young prince had no patience with his instructors. The seasoned warriors were too busy carrying out the remnants of the Purge to bother training a willful boy. The king was encased in his grief. The distance he put between himself and his son was a tangible presence, a thick stonewall of resentment and despair.

 

Leon had been a fledgling, promising soldier, fresh and bright-eyed. The prospect of contributing to the little prince's training had come as an honor. The boy had a certain raw talent that the newly christened knight had come to admire, given his own incompetence with the sword at the prince's age. His own skill had come through diligence and practice after weary practice.

 

Edric had not witnessed Arthur's growth as a swordsman and a sovereign. Leon saw how the prince came to grasp the weight of his duty and bend before it. The burden might have been too great for a lesser man.

 

Not to say that Arthur doesn’t have his faults. Is it any wonder the solitary son, golden and bright and precious to his father and his kingdom, has a well of superiority fathoms deep? To name oneself monarch requires a peculiar amount of arrogance in any case. Uther conquered a kingdom at Arthur's age, and his son has inherited his pride if nothing else.

 

But underneath the veneer of royalty, Arthur feels a responsibility to his people and his land that rivals and surpasses any noble Leon knows. It frustrates him endlessly to see even his fellow knights underestimating the prince.

 

"Arthur will find his _way_ is in Camelot. And if the prince requires a reminder, I will gladly pass it on. But I have faith he will recognize his duty."

 

Edric squints at him. "Hmmph. Sooner or later. I pray sooner."

 

Guinevere smiles brightly from his memories. Leon feels a twinge of guilt in his chest. He hates to even think it, but if Arthur is to return to his duties now, in all likelihood, he and Gwen will have to relinquish their relationship.

 

Her mother had served in Leon's household. As a child, Gwen had been just as sweet and pretty as the young woman she had grown into. He'd been astonished when word reached him that Prince Arthur had eloped with the serving girl. Not that Arthur had fallen for her - no, that had been patently obvious with the way Arthur stared when she entered the room or passed in the hall. Leon had even found the dumbstruck haze that came into the prince's blue eyes at the sight of the girl amusing at first.

 

But it seems contrary to Gwen's character to allow the prince to abandon his kingdom and his duty for her sake. Perhaps it is simply that Leon does not know enough of the heart to understand the passions that drive young lovers. But the question wears at him constantly, night and day: _Why did you leave, Arthur?_

 

In the confusion and chaos that reigned in the wake of the crown prince's disappearance, Leon had made himself a vow. He would find his prince, and ask him the question himself. Had the prince been forced to leave by some threat? Had he been enchanted? Kidnapped? Or had he simply fled to protect Guinevere? Whatever answers Arthur gives, Leon will finally know, and he could put his mind to rest.

 

But the prince is not to be found in the northern reaches of Camelot, it seems. It is time to return to the citadel. Until he can manage to lobby his way onto the next lengthy patrol. South? Towards the Forest of Balor? Arthur could have crossed the Dragon's Tail into Cenred's kingdom.

 

The prospect of a new destination renews Leon's flagging energy. He nods at Edric. "We'll leave at daybreak. Let's gather the men and resupply here. Send Henrik and Wendell to the market for fresh provisions. And tell Henrik if he spends a single coin on sweetwine, he'll be walking his horse all the way back to Camelot."

 

The first of the tavern's nightly customers pass them on the wide, dusty road through the town's center. The sun is just crossing the black line of the distant horizon. Leon gazes to the south, imagining the white spires and towers of Camelot can be seen rising from amidst the darkened patches of trees.

 

_Wherever you are, Arthur, stay safe. I will find you._

 

 

  



	4. Arthur II

 

 

The coarse leather grip wrapped around the hilt feels warm and familiar against his palm. Arthur swings the rough practice sword a few times under the pretense of testing the balance.

 

This weapon pales in comparison to even his old training sword back in Camelot. The blade is more iron than steel, a dull gray instead of gleaming silver. The hilt is barely fashioned, instead, hastily wrapped in leather. And gods know there are no inlaid rubies, no silver etchings nor gold filigree.

 

But Arthur can’t keep the irreverent grin off his face. Truly, he is glad to simply have hold of a weapon again. He itches to train - to sweat, to strain his muscles, to collapse onto the ground exhausted and sated. When he tries to explain the urge to Gwen and Merlin, they simply shoot him bemused and tolerant looks.

 

The apprentice blacksmith sighs and sets the sword back down. Some people just don’t have the warrior instinct. That is one quality he and Morgana have always seemed to share. Arthur never needed to explain to her the irrepressible urge to fight.

 

He is still trying to imagine how Morgana is passing the days in the castle, with both her handmaid and Arthur gone, when Gwen ducks through the forge's low entryway.

 

"Hello, my love," she says warmly. Despite himself, Arthur feels a blush rise on his neck. "How is my swordsmith faring?"

 

"He fares quite well, my lady." He steps forward to greet her, slipping an arm around her waist. "Better now that he can look upon such a lovely countenance as yours."

 

"You think you're such a poet, don't you?" Her laugh is light and her lips sweet.

 

With his usual sense of impeccable timing, Merlin stumbles into the forge as well. Arthur hears his overly abused groan.

 

"We need to work out some sort of signal. A scarf tied round the handle? Or maybe you should just block the entire door with the anvil. I have enough trouble sharing the same cottage with the two of you—"

 

"For the love of Camelot, Merlin, why are you here? I thought you were going round to the lad's sister." Arthur reluctantly releases his giggling wife.

 

"I already have. She and Jacob have headed off to Flintbridge for the market, but I thought I'd bring some pies for dinner because I knew Gwen was stopping by." Merlin drops the carefully wrapped package unceremoniously on the grimy worktop. "And her name's Clara, Arthur. You've only known her for what, three moons?"

 

He ignores Merlin and hands a pie to Guinevere. When he turns back, he could swear he sees Merlin rolling his eyes.

 

"And Gael's looking for you. Something about putting an edge on his sword. Anyway, I've got to get back. I'm delivering the rest of Gwen's sewing," Merlin says.

 

"Thank you, Merlin," Gwen replies. "You're a blessing. I was up half the night finishing Emmeline's bridal gown. My hands are aching."

 

His manservant smiles goofily at her. "I've been called many things, Gwen, but that might be the first time I've been referred to as a blessing."

 

"Don't get used to it."

 

Merlin throws his neckscarf at Arthur. He catches the tatty red piece of fabric on instinct. "If I see that on the door tonight, I'll be sure to sleep in the forge," the cheeky man calls back as he skids round the doorjamb.

 

Arthur half-heartedly tosses the scarf at his retreating back.

 

He and Gwen pass a pleasant supper, talking and laughing freely together as they never could have in Camelot. She declares his first piece of swordsmithing to be serviceable, though he notices the wistful look in her brown eyes when she compares it to her father's finely crafted blades. She leaves him with a soft touch, the smell of her skin lingering in the warm air.

 

Gael pokes his head in an hour later. The boy is younger than Jacob, with a distinctly mischievous cast to his features, a sharp chin and upturned nose. For a reason Arthur could only too easily fathom, remembering his own days stalking the armory and smithy in the lower levels of the castle, the younger village boys tend to loiter outside of his forge. If they are feeling particularly bold, they even drop in and pester Arthur with questions about swords and hammers and daggers. Gael is no exception.

 

In this instance, however, he carries a training sword. The tip carves a furrow in the dirt as he drags it in behind him.

 

"Hiya, Arthur!"

 

Arthur frowns down at the short lad. "Gael," he greets him. Reaching out, Arthur hefts the sword away from the ground and adjusts Gael's grip. "If you're going to wield such a weapon, even just for training, you must treat it with respect." He usually reserves such a tone for his knights when they disappoint him during a spar, but he feels justified, given the caliber of the sword. Where had the boy gotten hold of such a superiorly crafted weapon? Simply for training?

 

"But it's so heavy."

 

"All the more reason you must ensure your grip is correct. You will strengthen your wrist this way. Eventually, you might even be able to hold the blade upright."

 

The boy scoffs. "I can hold it. And what do you know, anyway? You're just a blacksmith. I'm here to get an edge for my blade."

 

A flare of indignation is immediate and involuntary. He suppresses it with effort. "Absolutely not. The point of a practice sword is the blunt edge. I can't in good conscience let you run wild with deadly sharp steel." The words come tumbling out. "And I'll have you know I can hold a sword, boy. Better than you, I wager."

 

"Oh, yeah? Is it a wager you want, then?" Gael asks with a brazen smirk.

 

" _Really_?"

 

His eyes twinkle with excitement. Arthur sees the challenge within them and he can’t resist a grin as he grabs the hilt of his newly forged sword. It is clumsily made, but he won’t let that stop him from showing the peasant boy a thing or two about the art of war.

 

"You would challenge a simple blacksmith?" Arthur asks, with a practiced air of nonchalance.

 

"I've got to work on my technique somehow. Might as well beat someone who at least knows how to hold a sword," Gael says with a smile that reminds Arthur of his insolent manservant.

 

Arthur pretends to test the weight of his sword. "Alright, a wager then. If you beat me, I'll forge you a sword worthy of a king." Arthur pauses. "Don't you want to know what I get if I win?"

 

Gael laughs. "You won't," he says simply, swinging his blunted training sword at Arthur's chest.

 

Arthur ducks and dives backwards, pulling his own weapon with him. He glances around his crowded forge. Guinevere will kill him if he stages a swordfight in here. "Let's take this outside," he calls to Gael, darting away.

 

"Are you stalling?" Gael shouts back as he gives chase.

 

Arthur doesn’t pause until he is standing near the well in the center of the village. A few townspeople pause to watch in amusement. The lad is known to challenge anything that moves. At least Arthur is better sport than the oxen.

 

With a savage grin, Arthur replies, "Stalling? Not at all!" He lunges forward and nearly knocks Gael's sword from his grip. The boy recovers quickly, and Arthur finds that whomever had gifted him the fine training sword with had also taught him to utilize his agility well. They trade blows in a mad flurry of limbs, meager steel still flashing in the brilliant orange of the setting sun. But Arthur is toying with him, drawing the fight out, as he would while training a young squire back in Camelot.

 

Finally, Gael is prostrate on the ground and covered in a sheen of sweat, while Arthur brandishes his sword at his throat. "Wh-Where did you learn to fight like that?" the boy asks breathlessly as he gapes up at Arthur.

 

He reaches down and pulls Gael up from the ground. "It just comes to me naturally," he answers with a laugh. Arthur looks up at the small crowd that has gathered, clapping and laughing, and locks eyes with a disapproving Merlin. His arms are crossed over his chest in that stubborn way he has.

 

Arthur rolls his eyes and groans. As exhilarating as the spar had been, he is frustrated. The intervening months have dulled his reflexes. His grip has weakened - he can feel the strain on his wrist already. He doesn’t need an I-know-best lecture from the likes of Merlin. He’s supposed to have left that behind with his father and his crown.

 

He turns and trudges back to the forge, knowing Merlin will follow him to nag, and he isn’t disappointed. After a few minutes he hears a huffed sigh from behind.

 

"Are you going to sulk behind me the rest of the day?"

 

"I'm not sulking _,_ Arthur." His voice is irritated and a touch whiny.

 

"If this is you _not_ sulking—"

 

"Fine, whatever! You already know what I'm going to say. What were you thinking picking up that sword?" Merlin demands.

 

"I was thinking that a harmless spar with a squire wouldn't hurt anyone!" Arthur insists. An itching feeling of annoyance is creeping along his skin.

 

Merlin flings out his hands in a gesture of helpless frustration. "He's not a squire, Arthur! He's a village boy who has delusions of being a soldier. He is no match for a trained knight—"

 

Here Merlin cuts himself off, glancing around surreptitiously. The market isn’t bustling but neither is it empty of people. They walk in silence until they reach the forge. Once inside, Merlin rounds on him again, but he seems more collected, and he opens his mouth confidently like he's had time to marshal his arguments. _Lucky me._

 

"You can't just go around swinging a sword. You don't realize how much attention that draws in a place like this - you'd be hard pressed to find a villager with talent and adequate training enough to even spar with you." Despite Merlin's chastising tone, Arthur feels a bit of smug pleasure at the indirect compliment.

 

He must see Arthur's expression, however, because he rolls his eyes and continues. "Just be careful, okay? We don't need anyone to realize that you're a trained knight of Camel—"

 

Merlin cuts himself off abruptly and his eyes widen just a fraction as he looks over Arthur's shoulder. Even as he whirls around and catches sight of Griff standing behind them in the entrance of the forge, Merlin has recovered and barely misses a beat before he is grinning warmly and greeting him. Arthur struggles to mimic Merlin's surprising composure. When had he become so slick and practiced with secrets?

 

Arthur has the strangest feeling that Merlin doesn’t even notice how adept he is at hiding behind a cheery façade. The thought settles uncomfortably, ill-fitting, the measurements all wrong. 

 

He quickly forgets his unease. Griff hasn’t responded to Merlin's cheerful hallo. His craggy face is inscrutable. Arthur has always felt fairly comfortable around the man. He is Alric's father, and had been the one to push his son into the blacksmith trade. Generally, Griff is congenial and easygoing, if a bit rough around the edges. Arthur had felt some odd kinship with him when he found out Griff and his son had fled Camelot years ago.

 

Now there is a curious growl in his tone as he speaks. The tall, thick man looms in the doorway, his head nearly brushing the wooden lintel above.

 

"So, Arthur. How long do you and your lovely wife plan on staying in our humble town?" Griff has his thick, hairy arms crossed over his chest in a posture that niggles at Arthur's battle instincts.

 

He follows Merlin's lead and hides his wariness with a smile. "Why, I don't know, Griff. Guinevere sure enjoys all of the friends she's made here. I couldn't bear to make her leave just yet. Besides, I would have to find good, solid work before we move on."

 

"Would you not consider Camelot?"

 

Arthur's shoulders stiffen. Setting down his blunt sword, he turns to face the man. Even he notices the cool tone that creeps into his voice. "I don't want to go to Camelot."

 

Arthur can see the veins standing out on Griff's meaty fists as he clenches his tunic tight in his fingers. "And why is that, Arthur? Is there something there you're afraid of? Or someone?" Griff grinds his words out between his teeth.

 

"What are you accusing me of, Griff?" Short and to the point is best, he's found.

 

"I saw you by the well just now. Sparring with Gael. You're no ordinary blacksmith, boy. Never seen one could fight like you. I'd bet my best filly you trained as a knight. And I've never known a knight to give up the sword for the anvil. Not willingly." Griff spits in the dirt. "Why're you here? This town's peaceful. We don't want no trouble if you got Knights o' Camelot after you for desertion."

 

"I'm not a knight—"

 

"Oh, spare me the silver tongue. What'd you expect, I wouldn't notice? Using the missing Prince's name as your own? For shame." Griff's frown deepens, if possible.

 

Arthur can’t seem to think up anything to refute Griff's claims. How in the blazes does Merlin do this? Beneath the man's bushy eyebrows and sharp dark-eyed gaze Arthur can do no more than agree.

 

He chews on his lip for a moment. "Fine."

 

Griff raises said bushy eyebrows.

 

"I am a Knight of Camelot. When the Prince disappeared… the King forbade any of the knights to go after him. But I left. I had to… to go looking for him, to make sure he stayed safe." That is almost all true, Arthur figures. The Prince also holds the position of the First Knight of Camelot.

 

"Then what the hell are you doing here, boy?" Griff demands.

 

Once again, Arthur is left gaping at him.

 

"We're waiting for him," Merlin suddenly interjects.

 

"Why would the Prince come here?" Griff asks.

 

"Well, think about it. This is the closest town on the road to Cenred's castle. When he comes back to Camelot, he'll have to go south around the Ridge of Ascetir. No sense crossing that and going through the Forest too."

 

He shrugs. "There're only a few other towns this close to the border. Flintbridge has a garrison of Camelot soldiers ten miles outside. Willoughby can only be approached on this side of the border by boat, and he won't want to part with any money. Besides, transporting that many horses over the river when it's this deep? Not a feasible plan. But there's a bridge here. Big enough for his entire party."

 

Merlin's information is so matter-of-fact that if Arthur hadn't been the Crown Prince of Camelot himself he would've believed it. As it is, Griff seems to have swallowed the lie. For the most part.

 

"Why would the Prince be in Essetir?"

 

That is the question Arthur wants answered as well, but to ask would have aroused suspicion that he doesn’t know the plan he'd supposedly concocted. No one would believe a servant engineered the entire scheme.

 

Merlin seems surprised Griff has to ask. "He's gathering his support. Hadn't you heard Cenred's army is massing to the east?"

 

Griff nods quickly. "Of course. Sure I've heard."

 

"They've entered in a secret pact with Prince Arthur. Cenred's armies are going to help him claim the throne from his father. In return, the Prince will be pledged to marry King Cenred's niece."

 

Arthur fights to keep his eyes from bulging out of his head at the blatant net of lies Merlin weaves. A crooked smile flits across the servant's lips and he leans forward, half-conspiratorial and half-amused.

 

"Course I've heard this niece is a bit too fond of her sweetcakes, if you know what I mean," Merlin whispers. "The Prince might regret that bit of the agreement."

 

Griff lets out a startled guffaw. "Boy, that mouth of yours is going to get you killed someday!" He claps a meaty hand on Merlin's shoulder, still chuckling.

 

Arthur finally finds his voice again. "I believe this goes without saying, Griff, but you can't reveal our true motives to any of the citizens here. I know this is too much of us to ask, but you mustn't let your duty to your former country—"

 

Griff catches him off guard by laughing once again. "What duty? You've got nothing to worry about from me, Sir. I'd do anything to have the Prince on the throne instead of that lying—"

 

"Thank you Griff. That truly means a great deal coming from a man of your standing." Merlin shakes his hand.

 

Griff nods proudly. “Course. Don’t you worry none about me - I’ll keep this quiet. Sir,” he says, bowing his head to Arthur, before excusing himself. Arthur's fists clench tightly as he disappears over the threshold into the falling night.

 

"That man is lucky you interrupted him. I still have my sword."

 

Merlin sighs. "Well?"

 

"Well what?"

 

With an exasperated flail of his arms, Merlin steps closer. "Well how about an 'I told you so'?"

 

Arthur turns back to his horseshoe. "I'm not sure what you're getting at."

 

"Griff couldn't have had better timing! This was exactly what I was afraid of!" Merlin's face is so red Arthur is afraid he'll birth a cow right here on the floor of the forge. He considers telling that to the dark-haired boy, but Merlin speaks first. "I knew that sword would be dangerous."

 

"That's sort of the purpose, Merlin."

 

Rolling his eyes yet again, Merlin goes to leave. "You just couldn't keep your sweaty hands off anything with a point. You're lucky I was there to save you. I thought you would choke on your own spit before you gave Griff a believable answer. No imagination."

 

Before Arthur can retaliate or demand to know where Merlin had come up with such a ludicrous story, he disappears into the shadows.

 

 

 


	5. Guinevere I

 

The night of Samhain is clear and crisp. The nip in the wind is brisk enough to raise color on the cheeks of the children, but gentle enough that Gwen is comfortable in her woolen cloak. She suspects that once Griff and Alric light the fires, she might even have to unfasten it.

 

Gwen glances up at the wooden effigy that will soon be afire. The skeleton of sticks and branches towers above her head, forming a crude representation of a man. Breela told her it was supposed to be one of the river sprites. When she had looked at the older woman askance, Breela chuckled. "I forgot you come from across the border. I feel as if you have always been here," she said.

 

Her friend explained that the sprites often drowned children in the river - the Southern Tail, which wound through a floodplain east of the village and formed part of the border between Essetir and Camelot. The evil little creatures are blue-skinned, with warts all over. Breela had caught of one her children up in her arms as she related the tale, pinching their cheeks over and over as they squealed. "Warts here and here and here!" she had cried as Gwen giggled.

 

She can see Breela now, on the far side of the square, standing next to the well with two of her daughters. The woman has a stern face, lined and square-jawed. Gwen can admit to herself that she had been intimidated upon their first encounter. But when she saw Breela with her children - there was no doubting her good nature.

 

Waving as she catches her eye, Gwen picks up her basket and approaches. "Breela," she greets warmly.

 

Breela fusses at Gwen's hair in a motherly fashion that makes her heart ache in remembrance of an old wound. Gwen smiles down at Samra, who gives her a timid smile in return. Little Cayliss is happy as always, running to her and hugging her legs. The girl's blonde hair gleams in the light of the torches scattered throughout the square.

 

She can’t help but be particularly fond of the littlest daughter. Every time she sees a blonde head scurrying round her feet _,_ her heart quivers, and she imagines a blonde daughter of her own, tugging on her hand like Cayliss tugs on Breela's.

 

As if she can read Gwen's thoughts, Breela nudges her shoulder. "And where's that handsome husband of yours? You'd best be careful about letting him wander tonight, with all these girls and the spirits of mischief about."

 

"Samra thinks Arthur is pretty enough to be a prince."

 

"Cay!" Samra shrieks, lunging at her sister. The girl howls with laughter and takes off. The sisters chase each other around the stone well.

 

Breela shakes her head. "Those two are like fire and water. Can't get a moment's peace in my house with their older sister gone."

 

Gwen forces herself to breathe. The mention of a prince had stopped her cold, her fear a heavy stone in her chest. She scrambles for the subject that Breela had provided. "Yes - Tyna - how is she doing with her grandmother? Does she write you? Is she coming home soon?"

 

Perhaps she had spoken too quickly. Breela gives her a strange look, but shrugs and answers. "A letter or two. Tyna's not much of a writer, truth be told, and Jep has to read the letters for me. She'll stay the winter with my mother and likely be home to help with the spring planting."

 

Cayliss attempts to dart past her mother's legs. Breela snags her by the arm. "Now, you stop your running about. You'll lose your charm if you keep this up." Breela fingers the braided red thread tied about Cayliss' wrist. There are several items dangling from the bracelet. Gwen gently pulls the girl's arm towards herself to get a better view.

 

Breela notices her interest. "Ah, I thought you might not have one. They're to ward off evil. The veil is thin this night. The Otherworld is just a step away." She brushes one of the charms. A delicate, curved fragment of bone, likely from a bird or other fowl. "Bone. A relic of the grave to hide from the eyes of spirits."

 

Gwen swallows and revises her previous conclusion about the charm. Breela continues, tapping the small square charm next to it. "Iron, to ward off the fae. And the sunblossom for witches and their enchantments."

 

"Did you make these yourself?"

 

"Sure I did. And I just so happened to have made one for you." Breela slides another red bracelet from around her own wrist and fastens it for Gwen.

 

"Thank you. You are very thoughtful."

 

Both of the women turn at Griff's shout. "Gather round! Gather round for the lighting!"

 

Gwen whispers a farewell to Breela, and goes to find Arthur and Merlin, standing together in the modest crowd. Last Samhain, she had attended - or rather, served - at a grand feast in an elegant castle. Gwen finds she much prefers this small village square and the company of commoners.

 

She rests her hand in Arthur's as Griff and Alric take their torches to either side of the wooden idol. The base must be drenched in oil or animal fat, for great tongues of orange fire leap forth with vigor to devour its legs.

 

The villagers lead a rousing cheer. Arthur studies the effigy curiously. "We don't have any such customs in Camelot."

 

Gwen is surprised to see Merlin shudder next to him. "I'm glad of that."

 

"Why?" she inquires.

 

He shakes his head slowly. "It looks too much like a man burning on a pyre."

 

A chill sweeps through her chest. She glances back to the effigy and tries to recall the beauty of the flames, but is unable to shake Merlin's macabre image. The carved wooden mouth gapes open like it's screaming.

 

Arthur frowns at the former manservant. "You sure know how to spoil a celebration, Merlin."

 

He smiles weakly, but to Gwen, he still seems disturbed. Merlin noticeably averts his eyes from the burning idol. "It's somewhat of a specialty of mine," he jokes.

 

The sudden turn the mood has taken is simply a harbinger of the night to come.

 

Arthur slips away to fetch a few flagons of spiced cider. Gwen is eagerly anticipating the warm drink when Merlin notices Breela's bracelet. She sees his dark blue eyes dart over the peculiar charms.

 

"Where did you get this?" he asks tersely.

 

She startles a bit at his tone. "Breela… Breela made it for me."

 

"May I?" he requests, without raising his gaze from the bracelet.

 

Proffering her wrist, she watches him examine it. After several moments, he releases a gust of breath. "Oh. Wonderful. Very kind of her. The St. John's wort is a nice touch."

 

"You know what this is?"

 

"Protection charms. Why? Didn't she tell you?"

 

"No, no, she did. I just didn't expect… I had never seen its like in Camelot." Gwen comments, as lightly as she can. She is intrigued at Merlin's reaction. He'd seemed almost - worried, at first.

 

Merlin purses his lips. "Not terribly shocking, I suppose. Uther would have no doubt been suspicious of items claiming to protect the wearer from magical maladies. Sort of like an amulet." He glances at her and seems encouraged to go on. "Amulets can come in numerous forms, but at their most basic, they're physical items embedded with protective or healing magic. Formerly very common in Camelot, according to Gaius."

 

For once, Merlin doesn’t seem upset at the mention of his mentor. Gwen is pleased to see nothing but thoughtful interest in his features. He offers a brief smile. "Keep it on, if you would. I'd feel better knowing you have it. Especially tonight."

 

"Tonight… Samhain. Breela said as much too. Is it true? About the veil being thinner this night than the rest of the year?"

 

Merlin shrugs. "Gaius had mentioned it in passing. He said that spirits were allowed to slip through the Veil, this night only, to visit their family and their land. Some people leave a candle burning in the window to help them find their way home. I always thought that was kind of lovely."

 

Gwen trains her eyes on her feet. The question comes easier when she doesn’t have to see Merlin's face. "Do you think… I mean, if I lit a candle here, even though we aren't in Camelot…"

 

His hand lightly squeezes her shoulder. "I think your mother and father considered _you_ to be their home." Merlin tilts her chin up. "It's a good idea, Gwen."

 

She suddenly feels the urge to rush back to their cottage. What if their spirits are out there, wandering through the dark, looking for her in Camelot? Would Elyan light a candle for them? Does he even know?

 

Beyond the obscure silhouettes of village roofs, the black expanse of countryside seems impossibly wide. Gwen squints at the hidden horizon, wondering at the leagues they had traveled.

 

Lost in her thoughts, it takes her a moment to notice the faint flickering lights. She frowns and turns to Merlin. The glow is distant, but appears to be growing.

 

"Do you see that?"

 

Gwen points and Merlin follows her finger. He tilts his head in deliberation. "It looks like…"

 

His spine abruptly stiffens. "…torches. More than one." Gwen's heart skips a beat. Merlin spins around, searching the crowd. "Gods, where did Arthur go? Send him to do one errand…"

 

The crowd is too thick to see through the bodies, constrained as they are with their backs to the blazing bonfire. She wants to shove through them, push them out of the way, but Arthur is supposed to meet them here. She doesn’t want to him to come back and find them gone.

 

A rustle spreads through the gathered villagers, like a boulder dropped into a still pond. Whispers become shouts, which soon turn to screams. Gwen can see the outline of the horses now. And their riders, brandishing torches and steel.

 

"Dear gods, they're spirits! Come to avenge their deaths upon the living!"

 

She isn’t sure where the shout comes from, but it sparks off a panic, sending people fleeing every which way through the square. Knocked back into Merlin with a stray elbow, Gwen struggles to catch her breath through the sharp pain in her ribs. He pulls her upright and tugs her along.

 

"Arthur!" Merlin calls, his voice swallowed in the thick, smoky air.

 

She adds her own voice, but despairs of being heard through the turmoil. Breela is nowhere to be seen. Gwen spares a moment to be grateful she and her daughters are out of the fray.

 

But her husband is not. _Arthur,_ her mind insists, pulling incessantly at her as she stumbles over a stray log that has tumbled from the bonfire. The orange light, bred by the flames, takes on a sinister aspect among the frightened horde.

 

And she hears his voice.

 

"Calm yourselves!" He is shouting at the top of his lungs, from his perch on one of the tables, laden with festive treats. "Hear me and be calm!"

 

Arthur's foot has landed directly in a fruit tart. Gwen feels tears of relief spring to her eyes. His speech is forceful, ringing out over those remaining. They eventually begin to quiet.

 

"Village elders, gather here before me! Those of you with children, take them home. The rest of you, if you could stand back, but stay in the square. These are Cenred's soldiers that approach. I do not know what they want, but a show of numbers would not do us harm."

 

No one argues. Merlin slips through the tense crowd, and Gwen follows close upon his heels, until they stand just below Arthur. He glances down and winks at her. She simultaneously feels the urge to kiss him and to yank him by his ear, down from his precarious position.

 

Instead, he jumps back onto the packed dirt, leaving a sturdy wooden plank and a whole roast fowl between them.

 

"What exactly are you planning to do?" Merlin hisses.

 

Arthur snatches a dagger from a half-eaten plate and makes a show of wiping off the grease. "Let's find out, shall we?" he says, with mocking joviality.

 

She lurches forward and bumps into the table that he had likely put between them on purpose. "Arthur—"

 

Before she can utter any admonition, he hails the approaching soldiers.

 

"Greetings!" he bellows into the gloom. He pauses while they canter to a stop. Gwen is positive they only halt because Arthur is now within the distance a nocked arrow can fly. She counts perhaps ten or fifteen, all on horseback. Several carry torches, casting shadows upon their countenances.

 

"This village receives you. Come, partake in our cider and our meat. A Samhain feast is welcome to all." Gwen can hear the artificial cheer in his tone. "Else we might have a share of bad fortune!"

 

A chestnut mare trots forward, bearing a wiry, red-bearded man on her back. "Well, we mustn't let that happen on our account. We'll take your meat and ale." Nudging his horse on, the soldier sneers down at Arthur. "While you're at it, we'll have your grain and livestock too."

 

"You would spurn our hospitality and resort to theft?" Arthur asks sternly.

 

"Ain't theft. We're here by the order of King Cenred. Your village has been chosen to supply his army. Our army, now that we've received our silver." The ginger soldier gives a mock bow. "Many thanks."

 

His men laugh boisterously. Gwen's mind races. How can they refuse an order from King Cenred? She doesn’t know much of the man. Is he liable to sack and burn a village for refusal? And here she thought she'd never be grateful for Uther - but Arthur’s father would not put a village to the torch for such a minor grievance. Gwen will not go so far as to trust in Uther’s mercy, but he wouldn’t need commit such a foul act. Camelot is prosperous enough to provide for its soldiers. They need not raid the countryside for supplies.

 

Arthur shifts his weight ever so slightly forward, as if he wants to march right up to the man’s horse, but is holding himself back. She breathes a silent, grateful prayer. "I'm afraid you and your company will have to look elsewhere for supplies. The harvest this year was poor. Barely sufficient for our own means."

 

The man glances at the spread behind Arthur. "Hmm. Could have fooled me." He hops down from the saddle, landing hard on the earth. "You look a respectable man. You wouldn't refuse your king's command, now, would you?"

 

"Not a _just_ command."

 

Gwen winces. Sometimes, Arthur is damnably honest. The soldier's question has fallen too close to the mark. He will be thinking of his father and his own disobedience. Guilt, sharp and stinging, rises up into her throat like so many knives. She swallows harshly.

 

The soldier cocks his head and huffs a laugh. "The correct answer was 'no,' ya lousy fool." He stalks up to Arthur, hand resting on the pommel of his sword. Bit by bit, he unsheathes the blade, locking stares with Arthur all the while.

 

"Let's see if you can answer this one right." The sword is fully drawn. "Are you lying to me, fool?"

 

Gwen's heart pounds as the soldier rests the point of his sword under Arthur's chin. She can imagine the defiant gleam in his eyes, even though she is faced with the back of his blond head.

 

_No, Arthur! Don't you dare!_

 

He doesn’t acknowledge her screaming thoughts. Her husband scoffs. "You would threaten an unarmed villager with your sword? Have you no honor?"

 

The older man spits onto the dirt. "What would you know about honor, peasant? I didn't come to listen to your whinging." The tip of the steel presses against skin. "I asked you a question."

 

Gwen realizes she is crushing Merlin's hand in her own. She glances up at him. The former manservant watches the proceedings closely, an uncharacteristically severe expression on his face. She doesn’t release her death-grip, as Merlin appears an instant away from leaping in front of the sword himself.

 

Arthur slowly shakes his head. "I do not take orders from cowards. That means you - and your king, if he sends mercenaries in his place, to steal from his own people. _Fool_."

 

The soldier seems honestly confused by Arthur's resistance. "I dunno that you're really in a position to argue, friend," he says with a tinge of smug annoyance.

 

Arthur tilts his head down to peer at the offending blade. "That is fine workmanship." Gwen exchanges a worried look with Merlin. He jerks his head minutely, blue eyes wide.

 

"Too fine for the likes of you."

 

Gwen nearly chokes on her surprise as Arthur ducks around the blade, strikes out with one quick jab of his right hand, and grasps the man's wrist, twisting hard. The movement is too fast for the older soldier. He cries out sharply, fingers splaying open, and the sword clatters to the ground. Arthur bends and retrieves it.

 

Barely two heartbeats have passed. He turns the swordpoint to its owner's throat. "I think I will relieve you of it."

 

Gwen cannot tell from her vantage point, but it seems as if Arthur kicks him hard on the side of the knee. Cenred's lackey crumples with a screech of pain.

 

Arthur casually twirls the sword in his grip as he faces the other men. "Would you care to lose your swords as well?"

 

The red-bearded man stumbles towards his companions, unarmed except for his voice. "Attack, you blasted cowards! Attack, I say!" he bellows.

 

His men exchanges glances. Through some soundless conversation whose meaning is impenetrable to her, the soldiers come to a decision. As one, they wrench on their reins and gallop off in the direction they had come.

 

The lone chestnut mare stomps and huffs, trailing uncertainly after her fellows. The deserted leader tries unsuccessfully to capture her reins in his grip. "Stay still, you ill-tempered beast!" he demands.

 

Arthur waits until he's finally clambered ungracefully upon the long-suffering mare and goes in pursuit of his wayward men, shooting an ugly look back at the defiant village.

 

Her husband turns to the gathered crowd. He shrugs, hefting the silver sword onto one shoulder. "Mercenaries, I suppose. You get what you pay for."

 

The relief bursts through her chest and she releases a great gust of air. A cheer, greater than that which had greeted the traditional bonfire, breaks out.

 

Arthur acknowledges the hand-clasping and back-slapping with the grace of a noble used to such enthusiastic obeisance. Merlin scoffs and kicks at the dirt as he approaches.

 

"You've got to be the luckiest clotpole alive. I can't believe you didn’t get skewered."

 

Arthur waves off Merlin's statement with a suspiciously haughty gesture. It reminds her of the easy confidence he'd always carried as a prince, bordering on arrogance. That had always irked Gwen while she was a handmaiden. Just the sheer thoughtlessness of his entitlement. While she worked in the castle and worked in her father's smithy and worked to keep their home.

 

Now, she finds herself beaming at him. Fate has an unexpected way of turning everything on its head, Gwen is certain. One only has to look so far as Camelot's prince-turned-peasant to be sure of that much.

 

 


	6. Merlin I

 

 

Not for the first time, Merlin stares out the window at the distant silver gleam of the river and wonders if he'd made the right decision.

 

With winter creeping closer, the river is often covered in a sheen of thin ice come morn, a crust that would immediately shatter beneath your boot if you tried to step upon it. Sometimes, it feels like his entire life is that brittle, that fragile. One false step, one slip, and the freezing water will swallow them all.

 

Their new lives are all balanced on the thin ice of deception. Merlin is practiced at treading carefully in Camelot, but they aren’t in Camelot anymore. He cannot hide behind the prince or the court physician, he cannot depend on knights or armies. He can’t even seek Kilgarrah’s advice. Calling the great dragon here would sweep a wave of terror through the countryside. The southern edge of Essetir lacks the forests that mark the northern half, the forests he grew up with, near Ealdor. That wide blue river that marks the boundary with Camelot, the Dragon’s Tail, winds through plains and meadows, leaving the sky open and clear. Dragon’s wings would cast a long shadow, and Merlin doesn’t think he can convince Arthur that Kilgarrah is only a particularly large and grumpy hawk.

 

Merlin feels the loss of the dragon’s advice keenly. Soldiers are about, raiding the countryside. On a whim, Cenred could send more to decimate their village as punishment. And it seems Arthur is dedicated to outing himself as the Prince of Camelot to anyone who will pay the closest bit of attention.

 

Not to mention the druid sage’s words. A year has passed since they departed Gerun’s tribe, but he cannot get Yaissa’s smoky voice out of his head. _For the sake of the future, you must return._

 

Leaving Camelot behind was supposed to be the solution. Not a permanent one, no, he'd never believed that. Morgana will always be there, waiting for him and Arthur when they return, a perpetual specter behind the throne. But fleeing Camelot and Uther was supposed to give them all a reprieve from the constant danger.

 

Merlin tries to imagine Gaius's reassuring voice in his head. All he can hear is, _"Merlin, you idiot!"_

 

He hopes Gaius is still puttering about in his chambers, mixing tonics and tending to his patients. Morgana wouldn't interfere with him. She had got what she wanted, hadn't she? Arthur fled. Arthur gave up his throne and paved the way for Morgana to slither into Camelot's line of succession, as far as she is concerned.

 

Of course, Merlin knows that he can’t let her succeed Uther. Arthur's destiny is to become the greatest king Camelot has ever seen. Once he's stopped being a blacksmith, that is.

 

If anything, Merlin thinks their little sojourn into the life of a peasant will only enhance Arthur's kingly qualifications. After all, what good is a king without true compassion? And compassion is borne from understanding.

 

Now if he could only get Arthur to live life as a sorcerer for a bit.

 

Merlin shakes his head. He isn’t quite being fair to the prince. Arthur _had_ eventually come round to the Druids. There is no denying the man is stubborn, but he isn’t blind, either. He'd seen their peaceful customs and experienced their remarkable hospitality.

 

Magic had seemed to be an afterthought to Gerun’s clan. Just a special skill possessed by some, and not by others. Merlin wishes everyone viewed magic like that. Unremarkable for its very familiarity.

 

Perhaps some day.

 

Glancing up at the sky, Merlin notes the position of the sun. Just before sunset. And not a cloud in the brilliant late afternoon sky —

 

"Oh, damn it all!" He leaps up with sudden urgency. Arthur is waiting for him at the forge, he'd promised to bring supper, and now the prat is likely fuming at his absence.

 

Sprinting down the road with a basket tucked under his arm, he still manages to wave at those he passes. Most of the villagers chuckle at the sight of him. His lack of punctuality is unfortunately familiar. In all honesty, Arthur should be used to it by now as well. Somehow Merlin doubts that’ll ever happen.

 

Arthur has relaxed a bit since they'd come to Colembria. The pressure of his title and his father's strict expectations no longer weigh him down. But Merlin can tell he still feels the burden of his duty to Camelot. The shadow in his eyes some evenings, his occasional melancholy silences, the lapses into a brooding temperament, all hint at the guilt he feels. He never mentions as much to Merlin - of course - but he knows.

 

He ducks into the forge, panting for breath. Arthur turns from the anvil. "Does my sight deceive me? Could it be?" He rubs at his eyes with exaggerated disbelief. "Is it truly you, Merlin?"

 

"Ha-ha."

 

"You do me a great honor by gracing me with your presence, my lord!"

 

"Shut it, Arthur. Take your supper."

 

The blond grins toothily. Merlin eyes him suspiciously. "What's got you so cheery?" He hasn’t even thrown his hammer at Merlin. If only Arthur had left that particular habit behind in Camelot with his cape and his crown.

 

"Why, I'm glad you asked." Arthur bounds over to the worktop and grasps the longsword resting on its surface. He brandishes the steel in the air, slashing up and down for Merlin's benefit.

 

“I thought you had that mercenary’s sword.”

 

“That piece of refuse? Please, Merlin.” He menaces an invisible opponent with a flourish. "This is nicer, isn't it?"

 

Merlin glances at the dark steel. Though rough in composition and lacking in decoration, the shape of the blade is rather well-formed. Kilgarrah is in his thoughts this evening, however, and he pictures the blade that waits for Arthur. The gleaming silver and gold of its hilt, the hum of power that emanates from its edge.

 

Shrugging, he gives a noncommittal grunt. "I dunno. I've seen better."

 

Arthur looks like he's tasted something sour. " _Better_? Where? Perhaps my sword in Camelot, but we're not - "

 

"Nah. Better than that one, too. And I should know. I polished that blasted thing enough."

 

"That's - no, that's just not possible. What manner of blade was this?" Arthur demands.

 

"Longsword, of course. Sharper than any of its brethren."

 

"Who made this blade? How?"

 

Merlin struggles not to guffaw at Arthur's supremely offended expression. "Well, I'll tell you this much. The fires that forged that blade were much hotter than any you've got here."

 

"Do I know this supposed master swordsmith, Merlin? Or are you telling tales again?" Arthur bends back over his sword, needlessly sharpening it one more time and pretending not to peek over his shoulder, waiting for Merlin’s response.

 

He feels a bemused smile cross his face. "In a manner of speaking. Yours is very nice, though. A good effort.” Merlin pats him on the back. “Well, I'll be seeing you after sundown!"

 

Merlin skips out of the forge with a grin on his face and the sound of Arthur's grumbling behind him.

 

With the smile still lingering, he almost knocks straight into Clara. "Whoa - sorry," he says.

 

Brynn, her older brother, holds her close, an arm around her shoulders. Her face is pale and drawn, her dark eyes red-rimmed. Merlin's smile fades.

 

"Clara? Are you alright?" His voice is pitched higher with concern. The sound must draw Arthur out of the forge. He appears at Merlin's side, a piece of chicken still hanging out of his mouth.

 

Gwen comes hurrying down the path from the center of the village behind the pair of siblings, ostensibly trying to catch up. "Clara!" she calls. "Wait! What is it?"

 

The young woman buries her head in her brother's chest and begins to cry. Brynn's gaze darts between the three of them. He gets the sense Brynn feels cornered and tries to speak gently. "What's the matter?" Merlin asks them quietly. Clara heaves another sob, a wet, desperate sound.

 

Her older brother, mouth set in a grim line, answers for her. "It's Jacob. He's been…" Brynn hesitates and Merlin feels a shiver of worry and the weight of foreboding, a sensation he hasn’t experienced since their flight from Camelot.

 

Clara's hands drop from her face and ball into fists at her sides. "It's not true!" she insists. "He didn't do anything, he hasn't got any, they're wrong!" Her voice is choked and her breathing ragged.

 

Arthur hovers awkwardly a few paces away, watching with concern and a bit of fear. Gwen comes forward and grasps Clara’s shoulder. "I believe you," she says firmly. "But why don't you tell us what happened?"

 

She swallows, her hazel eyes searching the handmaiden’s. Gwen only looks back steadily, and Clara sighs. "We - we were in Flintbridge. It was Jacob’s first time in Camelot. He’s pestered me for months, and I finally gave in. I never thought…” Clara clenches her teeth together, something like fury flitting across her expression before she buries it.

 

Merlin’s worry only grows. He thinks of the sight that greeted him when he arrived in Camelot. Uther’s voice ringing clear and cold through the courtyard. The sound the sword made as it cleaved through the air. The mother’s awful scream.

 

Clara continues, and Merlin drags his thoughts away from his first execution. “We heard shouting, from the center of the market. Jacob wanted to go see what all the commotion was. He dragged me away from our stall, into the crowd. "

 

Her voice grows unsteady. "It was… there were… people. Five or six of them, bound hand and foot. One of them was only a child. I thought perhaps they were thieves, caught by the town guard. But the soldiers weren't wearing Camelot's colors. Their surcoats were black. Black and red."

 

She shakes her head vigorously. "It didn't make any sense! One of them held up a big, gnarled grey root. His fellows started chanting, over and over, but I couldn't understand the words. A woman near us collapsed, as did another at her side. And then…" Clara chokes on another sob.

 

"And then Jacob, he collapsed, next to me. He was holding his ears, and it sounded as if he was in pain, but there was nothing I could hear! I was trying to get Jacob back on his feet when the black soldiers pulled him away. They just - they grabbed him - they took him away from me!" she cries.

 

Merlin stands stock still, jaw clenched, while he listens. Magic. It must be. The root Clara mentions matches the description of mandrake. The way she recounts Jacob's reaction reminds him of his own experience with the root. The characteristic, piercing cry can only be heard by those who practice or possess magic. He remembers the awful noise only too well from when he'd tossed the enchanted root under Uther's bed into the fire. The selectiveness of the sound would explain why only Jacob and a few others crumpled in pain, clutching at their ears.

 

Merlin formerly suspected the lad had magic, and now he is certain of it. Jacob is many things - cheerful, mischievous, talkative - but he isn’t subtle. He likes to play with the fire, to weave the smoke into varied shapes. Merlin hasn’t done so since the debacle with the witchfinder Aredian, but he recognizes the whimsical technique. Not to mention that the few times he'd been round their home, Jacob had finished his chores extraordinarily quickly. Clara had given him a very stern glare and they'd had a whispered argument while glancing over at Merlin. At the time, he’d found it endlessly amusing.

 

He presses his lips together. Dread catches in his throat like he’s swallowed thorns. If mandrake root is being exploited to identify those with magic… no sorcerer is safe. How can one control an involuntary reaction to such sharp pain? It would be like stifling a flinch when touched unexpectedly from behind.

 

Merlin isn’t intimately familiar with the root, beyond its use in enchantments meant to disturb the mind. Morgana had shown as much, with her enchantment over Uther. To have such knowledge of its properties, coupled with the spell Clara heard, means that at least one of these black soldiers, or their leader, is a sorcerer.

 

A group of sorcerers performing magic just inside Uther's kingdom. Are they mad? And by the spirits, why are they kidnapping their kin?

 

Clara grasps her older brother's hands desperately. "I tried to get him back, Brynn! I chased after the cart, but they had hitched horses and—"

 

Brynn kneels next to her and pulls their clasped hands to his chest. "It's not your fault, Clara. They could have killed you."

 

Merlin comes forward, stepping around Gwen. "If they've taken him, they won't harm him. They want him." Of that, Merlin is sure. They could've executed the suspected sorcerers on the spot. Why waste the effort to isolate those with magic and drag them off, simply to kill them in another location? It’s not as if Uther would have punished them for the act, or even acknowledged that a crime had taken place.

 

"That means we can get him back, as soon as we learn where they've gone."

 

Clara gazes intently at him, like she did with Gwen, as if trying to discern the veracity of his words. Merlin can recognize the hope that lights her eyes, and knows only too well the mistrust that dampens it. He lets her see his own conviction, his own determination. His understanding. The young woman's eyes fill with tears again. Slowly, she nods.

 

Gwen regards him with a hint of bewilderment. He can feel Brynn’s and Arthur's eyes on him as well.

 

"You know who took him, Merlin?" Arthur demands, with all the authority of his nonexistent position. Gods, he can sound like a king when he wants to.

 

Merlin looks at Brynn instead of Arthur. "Witchfinders."

 

Brynn's brown eyes widen - but not in surprise. Terror fills them. This is familiar too, such a distinct kind of terror. The fear of exposure, the fear of the bringing to light of secrets. Merlin tries to ensure Brynn can see the reassurance in his eyes, but isn’t certain if he succeeds with him as he had with his sister.

 

"I must take Clara home, she's upset herself a great deal," Brynn says quickly. He sidesteps Merlin and Arthur, pulling a disoriented Clara with him, and continues past the forge toward their shared home on the edge of their fields. Merlin sighs.

 

Arthur seems just as confused as Clara. "How do you—are you sure? I mean, the Witchfinder is dead!"

 

Gwen has gone pale at the reminder of Aredian. Merlin bites his lip. "Yes, he's dead. But that doesn't mean he was the only witchfinder in the five kingdoms. Although I don't know why this group was using magic to root out their own kin." He frowns, still caught up in contemplation.

 

"Magic?" Arthur queries. "How do you know all of this, Merlin?"

 

Merlin takes a moment to clear his throat before replying. "I haven't known anyone to chant in a foreign language over and over unless they were performing some sort of ritual, have you? And I, uh, did a bit of reading up on witchfinders after Aredian nearly had Gaius executed. I wanted to know if it could ever happen again. You'd be surprised how much has been written about such methods."

 

Arthur doesn’t seem convinced. "And it was me who was accused as well, if you recall, so I had a bit of a personal interest in the subject," he adds.

 

Arthur frowns but nods.

 

"But why is a group of witchfinders going around these small villages?" Gwen says. "And how do you know they're not taking Jacob straight to Uther to be executed? You told Clara he'd be safe." Her voice holds a smidge of censure. Gwen knows very well if an accused sorcerer comes into Uther's clutches, they will never escape with their life.

 

Merlin ignores Arthur's grimace and answers Gwen. "They used magic to find him. They can't take him to Uther and tell him that. He'd execute them all."

 

"What if they lied? Said they caught _him_ using magic?"

 

"But they performed magic in the middle of Flintbridge, in full view of all the townspeople. They must know word's going to get back to the king. They have to be collecting sorcerers for another purpose."

 

As Merlin muses aloud, a chill tells him he has come to the correct conclusion. "But… who would be collecting sorcerers?" Gwen whispers.

 

 _Morgana_ , Merlin thinks. He hesitates. If he reveals Morgana's treachery now, will they believe him? What if Arthur is furious that they'd left behind a traitor with his father?

 

"Well?"

 

Arthur's sharp voice cuts into his thoughts. "Morgause," Merlin finds himself saying. "Maybe it's Morgause."

 

Reaching his hand around to clench the hilt of his sword, Arthur realizes it isn’t there and curses, before balling his hands into fists.

 

Merlin turns his head to the east, toward Flintbridge and Camelot and where these witchfinders are most likely keeping Jacob and the other magic users. The river he'd been gazing at earlier is engulfed by the shadows of nightfall, and Merlin imagines he can hear the crackle of frost growing across the surface.

 

_We all need to watch our step._

  



	7. Morgana I

 

 

Her footsteps ring hollow through the deserted corridor. The moon rises over the Lower Town; its silver crescent is thin but provides adequate enough light to see by. Besides, the darkness is her ally this night. It would not do to be followed.

 

At least, with no treacherous manservants underfoot, she can be reasonably certain no one will dare.

 

Or bother. What harm can the court's pretty painted doll possibly cause?

 

Morgana has only just exited the corridor that leads to her personal quarters when a most hateful voice hails her. She struggles not to cringe at the sound of her name in his mouth.

 

"Morgana," Uther's summons echoes against the stone and she stops in her tracks.

 

"I would have you dine with me, although the hour is late."

 

_But Father, I have sorceresses to consort with and treasonous plots to hatch. There is no time for a leisurely dinner when one seeks to conquer a kingdom!_

 

Morgana smirks as she imagines the look on Uther's face if she declines his invitation with that particular excuse. Soon enough, this playacting will be over. Soon she will be free of this suffocating place, this pretense of benevolence that grates at her constantly. She has to smile when she wants to scream, to be demure when she wants to set the table afire. Even now, Morgana wants to turn on Uther in this very corridor and let her eyes burn golden.

 

Instead, she turns with a regretful smile on her lips. "I would love nothing more, Uther. But I find myself quite tired and would retire to bed early this evening."

 

The king frowns ever so slightly. "Then where were you going?"

 

_Ah._

 

She thinks quickly. "I was headed to Gaius's chambers. To request a sleeping draught."

 

At the mention of her nightmares, Uther's frown softens into a concerned downturn of the lips. Morgana inwardly bristles. Now she'll never get rid of him.

 

"You should have sent your maidservant. Or had Gaius deliver the tonic to your chambers. If you are unwell—"

 

The false concern strains her meager patience. "Fine," she nearly snaps. Uther blinks. Forcing herself to gentle her tone, she continues, "You are right. I shall send my maidservant to Gaius and dine with you instead."

 

His features relax into a pleased smile. "Wonderful, my dear."

 

Even as she takes supper with Uther and compels herself to make polite conversation, Morgana is itching to be gone. Uther remarks on the unfavorably dry state of the chicken and she turns almost automatically, to catch Arthur's gaze and share an unspoken moment of exasperation, before she remembers. The chair across from her is empty. The king follows her gaze.

 

She and Uther stare at the gaping space before he clears his throat and Morgana tears her eyes away.

 

Before he can school himself, Uther's expression droops with weariness and something altogether close to despair. Morgana savors it briefly. _How must it feel, to know you have now abandoned both of your children?_

 

The wrathful thoughts do not have their usual strength, however. She struggles to put Arthur out of her mind.

 

He'd come to her before he fled. Whispering a hasty goodbye, giving her a hug and a quick kiss on the cheek. Arthur wasn’t fond of such gestures, and so he had surprised Morgana. Somehow, the touch of his lips felt like a brand on her skin. She'd raised a hand to wipe it off spitefully after he'd left.

 

The affection had tasted all the more sour because she knows it for a deception. Even if Arthur doesn’t. It is a pretense, a pretense that would quickly fall away the moment he discovered her magic. Better to fight for her people and their freedom and lose his love as a casualty of war than to wait and watch it turn to poison.

 

She knows this, but sometimes she finds herself slipping back into the routine of the past, when he hadn't been her brother by blood but heart. It is a cold irony that now she has learned of their shared father, she feels more distanced from him than ever.

 

Stabbing a piece of the inadequate chicken with her fork, Morgana tries to rein in her fickle thoughts. Lately, she is having trouble. Her hatred seems to fluctuate from one moment to the next, until even Morgana cannot anticipate who will become the subsequent target of that endless burning acid that lingers in her chest.

 

This past year, after returning from her sanctuary with Morgause, she has felt unbalanced, as if the castle itself is anathema to her, as if some long dormant part of the stones has awakened only to drive her out. _You do not belong here,_ she imagines they whisper. _This is Arthur’s place, Arthur’s throne. You are a bastard. Unfit for the crown._ Morgana knows it is all in her mind, but the whispers gnaw at her, feed into her nightmares. And if the nightmares do not keep her sleepless, her mundane dreams do.

 

She does not know if they are portents of the future, but regardless, they leave a seeping dread coiling through the pit of her stomach. She recalls them in startling flashes. Anything can trigger the hazy, half-remembered images. Light glints on a goblet as she dines with Uther, and she can see the same shimmer on a bloody crown, half-buried in the ashes of a cold hearth in some hovel, but still brilliant and golden. A window slams in a brisk wind and a scream echoes through her ears with enough force to topple ten riders from their saddles, their bodies colliding with the dirt. She thinks she hears a whisper in the dark as she lays in bed, and Merlin's face swims before her, half in shadow, a ghastly cut across his cheek, leaving a gaping hole and exposing the bone beneath. Spindly grey roots sprout from the wound, from his eyes and ears, his mouth, creeping down his neck to encase his body. He tries to speak, but cannot, choking on black dirt.

 

And the worst one, the one in the throne room, as Arthur looks up at her --

 

Swallowing a gulp of wine, she banishes the dreams and the uncertainty from her mind. Her sister awaits her.

 

Excusing herself to bed after an appropriate amount of time, Morgana leaves the hall and retreats into the shadows. She slips out past the stables, but does not stop to saddle a horse. The journey is not altogether far, and she wants the opportunity to stretch her legs.

 

The horned moon has begun its descent when she reaches the grove Morgause had shown her. It is an old Druid site, before they had been largely driven from the Darkling Woods by Uther's animosity. The rowan tree spreads its wide branches over the still black pond. She shivers with the remnants of some forgotten power.

 

Morgause should have arrived before her. Unlike Morgana, she does not have to waste precious minutes escaping the citadel and Uther's guards. The cover of darkness will only last for a few hours more.

 

She makes a conscious effort to restrain her impatience. Morgana breathes the bracing air in deeply through her nose. At least out here, under the opaque shadows of the woodland, she feels unrestricted. Unbound from the shackles of the stifling court. The sensation is fleeting, but so very cherished.

 

"Sister."

 

Blonde hair glints in the fading moonlight. Morgana tries to muster a smile at the sight of the fellow sorceress. Irritation grants her expression a sharp edge. "The night grows short. I must return to Camelot soon."

 

Morgause raises an eyebrow. "I apologize for my tardiness. Cenred would not be placated easily."

 

"Why must you waste your time placating the man? He is serving our purpose, not the other way around," she snaps.

 

"We have need of his army, Morgana. Do not forget. This plan has been long in the making. If we are to succeed and ensure your position on the throne, we must be able to control the entirety of Camelot." Morgause's logic is cool and relentless.

 

Her hands grasp Morgana's tightly. "Cenred gathers his forces quickly. The time to march is almost upon us."

 

Morgana sighs. The distrust she feels for Cenred is too strong and persistent to simply let it go. "And we are to take his word that he means to support my succession and not suddenly discover his own ambitions for Camelot."

 

Her smile is slow and deadly as venom. "I know well what he is capable of, and I have anticipated his plans. Even as Cenred musters his forces, we amass our own."

 

She releases Morgana's hand. "How fares the tyrant king? Has his son's abandonment broken him yet?"

 

"Uther is a stubborn man," Morgana warns. "I have spent much time and more words trying to convince him of Arthur's corruption, yet he still clings to his heir." She huffs in frustration.

 

"How lucky he is to have such a loyal ward by his side in the midst of such turmoil," Morgause notes wryly.

 

Some of her tetchiness eases. "It is true. Uther depends on me more than ever with Arthur gone."

 

The blundering fool. He cannot see past her devoted façade to the truth of her feelings. And why would he ever have the desire to look past the surface? As much as he claims to love her, he's never truly known her. She has the king's affection but not his understanding. Not his respect. His shallow love is worth less than ashes.

 

Morgause's deep brown eyes hold a vindictive gleam that reminds Morgana _she_ understands perfectly.

 

"I await the news with bated breath," the blonde sorceress says with a sly twist of her lips, "that Uther has willingly crowned a witch as Queen of Camelot."

 

 

 


	8. Arthur III

 

 

"I do not object to your intervention, young man." The elder squints at him and Arthur struggles to keep his face impassive. "I simply question the wisdom of refusing the king."

 

_Then perhaps you should have stood up and driven them off during the feast, instead of hiding behind me and then criticizing my methods._

 

He bites his tongue and forces the prickly thoughts down. The villagers have gathered in the feasting hall because they are worried and frightened. Not to spite him or his actions. Most of them, at least. He has a feeling there are several people simply here for the gossip.

 

"What choice did we have?" he asks. Addressing the crowd at large, he continues. "If we had turned over the harvest, we'd have starved in the depths of winter. Perhaps if we'd had some warning that enabled us to hide a good portion, but as it is…"

 

Even as the thought crosses his mind, he remembers Ealdor. The bandits led by Kanen had not been fooled. They'd searched high and low until they uncovered all the nooks and crannies stuffed with goods. Hunith had told them so, desperate and quietly terrified, with those big blue eyes Merlin had inherited from her.

 

Arthur cannot bring himself to regret his defiance at the Samhain feast. Every course of action he had considered led to the same conclusions. If they had not refused, they would have starved. There is enough goodwill between Colembria and the neighboring villages, Flintbridge and Willoughby, to rely on their food and aid for perhaps a month or two, but such an arrangement isn’t sustainable. Flintbridge might not have to worry about Cenred's conscription, protected as they are by Camelot's border and their fully manned garrison just outside, but the harvest hasn’t been fruitful for any this year. The larders are perhaps half-full.

 

This winter will be harsh. He considers the prospect with distaste. The awful magical drought that had afflicted Camelot two years ago had been the most restriction Arthur suffered, nobly born as he was, and that hadn't lasted a season such as this might. He now has the first inklings that famine is a routine concern for peasants. The burden is one he is abstractly familiar with - as king, he would have been expected to ensure all of his people were provided for. But now the danger is intimate, the fear too personal and visceral when he can’t observe from a distance up in his castle.

 

Another elderly man interjects into the discussion. He looks suspiciously like the last that had spoken, although Arthur hasn’t been paying close enough attention to be sure. "We could have come to some sort of an agreement with Cenred's party."

 

Gwen speaks up at his side. "But think what else they would have demanded of us if we had not complied and given over all our supplies. Something equal in value, at the very least. At worst, they would have taken some of the boys and men of fighting age to battle with them."

 

From the frown on her face, she does not think this an acceptable trade. Arthur firmly agrees with her. The thought of Alric wielding a blade rather than a hammer, facing down some armored soldier on horseback, makes his stomach clench. It does not help that in his mind’s eye, the soldier is draped in scarlet, his cloak emblazoned with Camelot’s golden dragon. He squeezes her arm gently and they share a warm glance.

 

Arthur notices young Gael, standing at his aged aunt's elbow, lift his fine practice sword up with a hopeful gleam in his eye. The pit in his stomach grows even deeper. He too had been eager to trade the practice yard for the battlefield, until he’d had his first taste of real war. As blood ran in the streets of the Lower Town and the dead awakened from their dusty crypts to do their dark master’s bidding, Arthur had found himself wishing for the predictability of his morning training.

 

His aunt bats his arm down and scowls him into submission. Arthur holds back a chuckle and reminds himself to ask his caretaker later where Gael had acquired such a blade.

 

"What battle, though?" a young man with the patchy beginnings of a brown beard calls out. "Why does Cenred ready his men to march?" The lad is of an age to be conscripted, and unlike Gael, does not seem enthused by the possibility.

 

Several of those present shout out theories, but Arthur holds his tongue. That is the problem, isn’t it? They don’t know. He feels half-blind, stumbling around in the dark. There are no scouts to dispatch, no patrols to gather information. Only rumors and whispers among the commonfolk. Gritting his teeth, he shoots a half-hearted glare at Merlin. When Arthur had wanted to discover Cenred's motives and his army's movements, Merlin was the one to dissuade him. It had frustrated him, and he still isn’t entirely sure why his former manservant had insisted.

 

Griff's voice is a deep rumble. "Cenred could be marching on Camelot." Arthur glances sharply at him and nearly groans when the blunt-featured man throws him a very unsubtle wink. _Right. Prince Arthur’s supposed plan. Thanks for that, Merlin._

 

Gwen grimaces and her nails bite into Arthur's hand. Merlin's expression doesn’t flicker, but there is a tightness around his eyes that speaks of strain. Arthur quickly takes up the idea and twists it to prevent Griff from saying something revealing about the stupid plot Merlin had spun and spooned to him. Marry Cenred's niece. He'd as soon marry the slimy git himself.

 

"Cenred has always held a grudge against Camelot. He might mean to finally muster all his strength for an attempt on the Citadel."

 

"All his strength, indeed. He is scouring the countryside for men and supplies, and has hired mercenaries. If this campaign does not succeed, Cenred will be ruined - his gold spent, his subjects dead, and his land barren. It is an ambitious plot," the elder Owain says. “Ambitious and foolhardy.”

 

Arthur has not had many dealings with the man, but from the words he has heard spoken, Owain seems steadfast and sure. His thoughts are carefully weighed and reasoned. Arthur is inclined to agree with his assessment.

 

And it worries him. Cenred had never been known to take such bold moves before he had made his pact with the sorceress Morgause. The woman is goading him somehow, for her own vendetta against Camelot. The memory of clashing blades with that rotted, skeletal army returns, and sends shivers down his spine.

 

If Cenred were to march on Camelot, would the Citadel fall? Could his father defend it against the overwhelming numbers the witch could likely conjure? The sudden, itching need to do something overtakes him and spurs his words to voice.

 

"We only have suspicion and speculation. If we are to defend this village, and ourselves, we need to gather more solid, trustworthy information. I propose we send a party to do just that. One east to Flintbridge, and another north towards any settlement closer to Cenred's castle." He doesn’t actually know the names of villages in that area, as a true Essetirian might, but the townspeople know he hails from Camelot. Vaguely, he recalls Jacob saying something about an aunt that lived in the area.

 

With a small pang, he remembers that Jacob is still missing. He needs to seek out Clara and Brynn after the gathering. Perhaps they can ask after the witchfinders in addition to Cenred’s actions.

 

"Why send riders to Flintbridge?" Owain inquires mildly. "Cenred would not yet dare to breach the border and thus the treaty."

 

"There is a garrison of Camelot soldiers nearby. Surely, if Uther knows of Cenred's ambitions, he would have sent scouting parties or patrols along the border. These soldiers are our best source for knowledge, especially if Uther has disseminated any orders among the garrisons bordering Essetir. They will be vigilant and alert," Arthur reasons.  _And if they’re not alert and aware… someone ought to warn them to be._

 

With a jolt, he realizes he will not be able to join the party heading for Flintbridge. Too great a chance that a higher-ranking officer will recognize Camelot's former crown prince. He suppresses a sigh.

 

 _North it is_. At least the journey will ease a bit of the restlessness he's felt, sedentary as he is here in Colembria.

 

"In regards to defense, we need to organize a nightly watch. Three pairs in each of three shifts, to patrol the outskirts of the village and surrounding pastures in a random direction so as not to be predictable. And I suppose it wouldn't hurt to gather the young men together every night and drill some practice moves. How many swords would you say—"

 

Merlin coughs lightly and Arthur cuts himself off. It occurs to him that dealing out plans and orders and expecting unquestioning obedience could be a bit presumptuous of him. From the wide eyes and raised eyebrows focused his way… maybe more than a bit. Inwardly, he curses, and feels some small measure of guilt towards Merlin. The former manservant _has_ reminded him once or twice not to forget his new identity.

 

He carefully does not glance in the direction of the raven-haired head. "That is, only if we all agree to such measures," Arthur adds, clearing his throat.

 

Griff jumps in and Arthur could have kissed his ruddy cheeks, despite his earlier irritation. "A fine proposal, I say! The lad has a good head on those broad shoulders."

 

Other murmurs of agreement surface throughout the crowd. Arthur doesn’t relax until Owain studies him thoughtfully, raises his gaze to meet Arthur's own, and nods.

 

"Arthur, as you conceived this plan, will you lead the effort of gathering the men and necessary resources together?" Owain requests.

 

He agrees quickly.

 

The gathered villagers begin to disperse now that a course has been decided upon. Several men linger, drifting closer to Arthur in hopes of being chosen to accompany him on his scouting mission. He considers them shrewdly.

 

"I will head north," he says. "George, Orrin, Mors, Roland, will you ride with me?" Those he had named nod their assent. They are all beyond Arthur in years, strong and capable. Orrin is handy with an axe and Roland often travels around Essetir to various markets, and thus knows the countryside well. The group he's chosen are no knights of Camelot, but they will do admirably.

 

He catches Alric's hopeful gaze. The lad is young, but Arthur has come to rely on his steady presence at the forge and sees no reason why he cannot come along. He glances to Griff, who claps a hand on his son's burly shoulder and gestures in the affirmative.

 

"Alric, there's no need for you to loll about in an empty forge and skip out on all the hard work. Will you accompany us?" 

 

"Yes, of course, Arthur," Alric says eagerly. "I can hunt and gather firewood and—"

 

His amusement is difficult to conceal, but Arthur hasn’t been attending court since he was knee-high for nothing. He nods solemnly and attentively as Alric stumbles over all his qualifications. The stolid young man does not have a gift for the spoken word.

 

Merlin obviously has no compunctions against letting mirth grace his features. He grins openly. Arthur already regrets having to send Merlin with the other party making for Camelot. His grumbling, complaining and bantering always shorten an otherwise dull journey. The prospect of days on horseback with no Merlin or Gwen to talk to has him wanting to groan.

 

No sense in letting Merlin know that. He mercifully cuts Alric off before he offers to chew Arthur's food for him, too. "Merlin, you'll head to Flintbridge with Darryn, Gyl, and Uller. Griff, I know you may not want to return to Camelot, but you know the terrain and lay of the land. Would you consider riding with them?"

 

"Aye, Arthur. I'll not let my son have all the glory," Griff responds, cuffing Alric genially.

 

Before Arthur can continue, Merlin interrupts. Loudly. "No, I'm going with you!"

 

"We're going to split up," Arthur insists. "You can make subtle inquiries regarding Jacob in Flintbridge as I will up north. Let me stress that again. _Subtle._ "

 

Merlin is shaking his head before he's even finished. "No. I need to come with you."

 

"Why? So you can tuck me into my bedroll at night?" he asks. He does not remember being overly familiar with such exasperated sarcasm until Merlin arrived in Camelot.

 

"If you need tucking in, I think Alric could—" Merlin cuts himself off and seems to remember he is in the midst of an argument. The jesting tone fades and his blue eyes become earnest and serious. "I have to go with you. Who's going to look after you if I'm not there?"

 

Arthur raises an eyebrow. "Perhaps I'm misremembering the night of my wedding, but I don't remember joining a pushy black-haired idiot underneath the rowan tree." Merlin shoots him an affronted glare and opens his mouth again, but Arthur raises his voice. "I mean it. Don't be such a nag, Merlin."

 

Gwen is suddenly at his side. "Are you implying that your wife is a nag?" she asks, calmly and coolly.

 

He startles and tries to pretend he hadn't. "Oh - er, no, of course not. My dear. Love. My love."

 

Sharp brown eyes study him for a terrifyingly long moment before she subsides. Gwen turns to Merlin. "I think Arthur's right," she says. He blinks in surprise and notes Merlin does as well. Gwen's forehead creases with worry and she bites her lip. "Jacob is still missing and Clara is nearly beside herself," she adds. "While you're in Flintbridge, you can ask after him. You heard her description of those men who captured him. And their methods."

 

She stresses the word delicately and Arthur knows she means the sorcerous ritual Clara witnessed. He’s grateful she didn't mention it in front of everyone assembled. Arthur isn’t sure how the townsfolk would have reacted. Witchfinding tends to be an uneasy subject in Camelot. Sorcery is illegal in Essetir as well, but Arthur hasn’t heard of Cenred strictly enforcing the law or making an effort to investigate claims. It is nothing like Camelot, where the price of a false accusation could be one's life. Before Aredian and the debacle with Merlin and Gaius, Arthur never would have doubted the results of a witchfinder's craft. His father certainly never had.

 

But now… he keeps hearing Merlin being accused in front of the court; keeps seeing the guards drag him away. Arthur thinks of Jacob, his guileless smile and the light of merriment in his tawny eyes, and feels sick. Has he been executed already? Are they chasing a ghost?

 

No, he’s being illogical. They could have killed him right there if they'd wanted. And they wouldn't cart him off to deliver to Uther after the spectacle in the center of Flintbridge. He pictures Jacob, kneeling before his father's throne, hands tied behind his back. Shoving the image away, he clenches his fists. Arthur doesn’t want to think about the king, Camelot, or thrice-damned magic. The uncertainty and confusion is making his head pound.

 

He refocuses and hears Gwen convincing a sullen and ornery Merlin to go along with Arthur's plan. After Merlin gives his reluctant consent, Arthur sends the men away with instructions to prepare to leave at dawn two days hence.

 

Distractedly trying to estimate the supplies he’ll need for a journey in which he doesn’t even know his destination, he nearly topples Merlin over. He’s stopped in the center of the hard-packed dirt road.

 

"For the love of Camelot, Merlin, pay some mind to the other people around you. Some of whom would like not to fall and impale themselves on their own sword," he gripes.

 

"Arthur, look!" Merlin's voice is pitched higher in shock, and if he isn’t mistaken, delight. He follows Merlin's gaze and sees Gael. The boy is lunging and swinging his practice sword with wild abandon, apparently demonstrating his footwork for the tall, fit man at his side. The first detail Arthur notes is that the stranger carries a sword, and his casual yet graceful stance has him suspecting the man knows how to use it.

 

The second detail is the familiar face. He hears Gwen gasp softly next to him. Merlin hails him with an exuberant wave.

 

"Lancelot!"

 

 


	9. Merlin II

 

  


Lancelot's natural inclination to respectfulness nearly bungles everything Merlin has worked for.

 

Upon hearing Merlin's cry, the man's head jerks up. His warm brown gaze lights upon his old friend and a soft smile spreads across his features. Lancelot approaches, a petulant Gael dogging his heels and pouting at the sudden lack of attention.

 

"Merlin, my friend! I must say I am truly astonished to run into you at such a great distance from Camelot."

 

Merlin swallows quickly, almost choking at the reminder of his previous occupation. He nearly smacks himself for his stupidity. Of course, Lancelot has no idea they’re hiding here, beneath the veneer of the mundane peasantry. Merlin probably should have approached him quietly, explained their position and ensured his silence. Curse it all - now he's spotted Arthur.

 

Lancelot's eyes widen and he sinks onto one knee in an unthinking response to encountering the crown prince of Camelot in the middle of a dusty village of no particular import.

 

"Sire—" he begins, with honest surprise, before Merlin launches himself at the man. He heaves Lancelot hurriedly to his feet, laughing bright and falsely all the while.

 

"Oh, Lancelot, you haven't changed a whit," he says. "Quite the jester, isn't he, Arthur?"

 

He knows Lancelot can hear the brittle edge of worry in his tone by the way he stiffens underneath Merlin's hands and lets himself be manhandled to Arthur's side. Fortunately, he doesn’t speak, simply glances between the former prince and servant with a puzzled expression.

 

Arthur's forced laugh is far less convincing. Merlin very pointedly does not roll his eyes. "Er - yes, quite," the blond man stammers.

 

Gael's eyes dart suspiciously from adult to adult. Merlin scrambles for a distraction, a shield of words.

 

"You'll never let him live that down, will you?" he asks. His thoughts are whirling madly, and in the chaos he latches upon a semi-plausible explanation for the curious onlookers and Gael. "I tried to tell him it wouldn't work, and I was right. The tavern girl most certainly didn't believe he was a visiting prince of Mercia."

 

Gwen, bless her soul, picks up the thread of the tale. She turns a mock glare on her husband. "Tavern girl, hmm? Am I going to want to hear the saga of this ill-fated escapade?"

 

Arthur only hesitates for a moment. A winning smile stretches his lips. "Pay no mind to these fools, my love. I have eyes only for my radiant wife."

 

"You're - you're married?"

 

Just when it'd all started to smooth out. Merlin thinks a curse very strongly in Lancelot's direction.

 

His frustration is tempered at the slight tremor in Lancelot's question. Merlin hasn’t considered… what must Lancelot think, upon seeing Arthur here, living out a fantasy of domesticity he’s sure the would-be knight has envisioned for himself a time or two.

 

Gwen's smile falters. Arthur, oblivious to the delicate tides of emotion in the air as always, claps Lancelot cheerily on the shoulder. "Nearly a year past, since we first came to Colembria."

 

Lancelot swallows and looks away. "What brought you here? To Colembria? I did not anticipate…" He seems unsure how to broach the subject of Camelot.

 

Merlin meets his gaze and shakes his head minutely. Lancelot acknowledges with a slight nod. Arthur jumps in. "It's a long, dreary tale. Best told over some stew and ale. You'll dine with us tonight, Lancelot?"

 

"Of course, my—my friend," the banished knight replies. At his elbow, Gael has had enough of being ignored.

 

"He's coming to Auntie's house first," the boy insists. "He promised that we'd have a training session."

 

Arthur eyes the pair. Now that Merlin is looking at them side-by-side, he notes a similarity in the shape of their mouth, the slope of their nose, the smooth tan skin. He and Gael have to be related in some fashion.

 

"You're the mysterious benefactor," Arthur says suddenly. Merlin quirks a brow at him. "I noticed when we were sparring in the town square. The lad's training sword is of uncommonly fine workmanship. I wondered where he'd acquired it."

 

Lancelot glances down. "You sparred with Arthur in the town square?" His question holds a hint of disapproval.

 

Gael nods without a trace of shame. "Yup. I challenged him to a bout."

 

"And who won?" Lancelot asks with a patient smile.

 

"Well… I nearly had him."

 

Lancelot laughs aloud at that. "I'm surprised you've still got both hands attached."

 

Gael's youthful bravado melts away. "He's the best swordsman I've ever seen!"

 

Gael's starry-eyed gaze at Arthur has all three of them laughing. His blond friend shifts on his feet. "Lancelot is more than a match for me," he deflects. "A most worthy opponent."

 

Arthur always is more willing to accept the adoration of the masses than admiration from a personal acquaintance. A quirk Merlin has observed more than once and often puzzled over.

 

"Lance, you should spar with him. I want to watch! You know. For, um, training purposes," Gael adds.

 

"Perhaps I will. Later," Lancelot says. He turns to Arthur. The coiled tension in his lean frame has eased a little. "I did give him the sword. I commissioned it for his last name-day, in Mercia." The knight ruffles Gael's dark hair, leaving it in greater disarray than before, if that is possible. "Gael is the child of my cousin Olwyn. His aunt takes care of him now, but I try to visit whenever my travels bring me near the Dragon's Tail."

 

Merlin and Gwen stand aside and watch as Lancelot and Gael convince Arthur to accompany them for dinner and eventually rope him into a training session. He makes a show of protesting, but caves entirely too quickly to be believed.

 

Squeezing Gwen's fingers, Merlin whispers, "As if he'd turn down the chance to spar with a real knight. Gael's been his only competition and the lad's barely as tall as Arthur's sword."

 

She spares him an amused glance. "Let's leave the little boys to their fun." Gwen tugs him along. They finish up the remaining work in the forge in companionable silence for the rest of the afternoon. The familiarity of working with Gwen soothes Merlin, and he’s able to calm his thoughts instead of relentlessly circling around the litany of his worries.

 

Arthur and Lancelot duck over the threshold of the cottage as dusk settles, red-cheeked and panting with exertion. The blond prince’s expression is glowing brightly, and there’s lightness to his movements that Merlin had rarely seen in Camelot outside of hunts and friendly spars.

 

The chat turns to their flight from Camelot over steaming bowls of stew. "We had to leave," Arthur reveals solemnly. "For Guinevere's sake. My father had discovered our… feelings for each other and sentenced her to death."

 

"Death?" Lancelot echoes in shock.

 

"He thought Gwen had cast a love charm upon Arthur," Merlin explains. He feels the sardonic twist to his mouth. "Because of course that's the only explanation for loving a servant."

 

Arthur's lips tighten but he doesn’t respond. Gwen's brown eyes have a sheen to them as she trains her gaze on the table. "I didn't want to leave Camelot. To make Arthur leave. But…"

 

Her husband grips her hands tightly in his. "You didn't make me do anything, Guinevere. I chose of my own free will. I chose you." The passion and devotion in his voice warm Merlin's heart. Where once the prince would have hidden his feelings behind a mask of stoicism or arrogance, now he allows Merlin and Lancelot to hear. His cheeks still flame red, and he glances awkwardly and belligerently at the two as if daring them to say a word, but Merlin figures it for progress.

 

He takes pity on Arthur. "It was too dangerous to remain in the city." Gwen pulls her gaze from Arthur to shoot him a look laden with meaning. He knows she is thinking of Morgana. They hadn't told Arthur of their suspicions, though Merlin has a feeling the dreaded conversation is going to happen sooner rather than later.

 

"We fled, but Gwen was injured by the guards as we escaped. I was able to patch her up, but we needed help. So… we took shelter with the Druids." Now it’s Lancelot's turn to give him a loaded look with an altogether different hidden meaning. If he isn’t careful, he'll forget which secrets he has with whom.

 

"I know what you're thinking, Lancelot, but the Druids actually helped us. They healed Guinevere," Arthur says hastily. Merlin blinks. He still isn’t used to hearing Arthur defend magic users.

 

The first few days spent among the Druids had been an awful, tense, drawn-out misery with Merlin just waiting for a disaster to occur. For his magic to be revealed, for someone to slip and call him Emrys, for Arthur to snap and run a sorcerer through with his sword. He'd teetered on a knife's edge of worry and desperate fear until Arthur finally relaxed. Marginally. Once Gwen made a demonstrable improvement under the withered healer's care, Arthur had at least stopped muttering under his breath and sleeping with his hand clenched around the hilt of his sword. And ever so cautiously, Merlin had begun to hope.

 

He still tenses when the subject of magic is raised, but Merlin thinks his reaction is borne of wariness rather than hatred and rage.

 

Lancelot stares at Arthur, both eyebrows raised, until the prince begins to flush an angry red again. Merlin nudges the knight under the table and Lancelot recovers himself. "Then I am truly grateful to them," he says. Arthur subsides, satisfied with the response.

 

After he helps tidy up, Merlin suggests he and Lancelot sleep in the forge that night. His friend barely needs any prodding, glancing at the bed Arthur and Gwen share and quickly away again. The pair bid them goodnight and hoist bedrolls on their shoulders.

 

The sturdy walls and low roof of the forge keep in the heat of the fire. The air is warm and close on his skin. He waits until Lancelot has arranged his bedroll off to one side of the bellows before speaking.

 

"It is good to see you. It's been too long."

 

Lancelot favors him with an honest smile. "Much too long. I wanted to come back to Camelot many times…"

 

He trails off and Merlin catches the disappointment. If he had returned, mayhap Gwen's courtship with Arthur would never have bloomed. Merlin doesn’t know, and couldn't begin to predict the twists of fate anyway. He sympathizes with his friend, but thinks of how Arthur and Gwen gaze at each other and finds it difficult to see a future where they aren’t together.

 

"Well, now you're not the only exile," Merlin jokes, in a weak attempt to lighten the mood. “There’s a whole group of us now, you know.”

 

Lancelot sends him an unreadable look that has Merlin fidgeting. "Yes, I've heard," he says evenly.

 

"Oh, I suppose you must have.”

 

"Merlin," Lancelot's brow wrinkles slightly. "Have you any idea what sort of commotion Arthur's departure caused in Camelot and among the five kingdoms?"

 

"Er - Uther's had an apoplectic fit?"

 

He shakes his head with an exasperated fondness that Merlin is intimately familiar with; only it usually comes from his mother or Gaius. "The strongest kingdom in the region is suddenly without an heir," Lancelot points out. "Even when Arthur was there, rumors of Uther's instability spread. No one likes the idea of a king with Camelot's wealth and influence and army becoming untethered to reality."

 

Merlin swallows nervously. His old friend's warm brown eyes are sympathetic but serious. "People are scared, Merlin. There's been whispering about a new Purge."

 

"Wh-What?" he sputters. "A new Purge? Doesn't that seem - rather dire?"

 

"Uther massacred sorcerers when he lost his wife. And now he's lost his son to the influence of magic."

 

Merlin slumps back against the forge's wall. Uther hasn’t really lost Arthur to magic; the love charm wasn't even real. But the king doesn’t make those distinctions. Magic is involved, and that’s enough to condemn hundreds to death. His nails dig into his palms as he clenches his fists.

 

"Do you… do you really think that will happen?" he whispers.

 

Lancelot stretches out on his pallet. He crosses his arms behind his head and stares up at the smoke-hole in the roof. "I hope not. I haven't been to Camelot since I was banished, though. I'm not sure of the temperament of the town or citadel."

 

Merlin goes cold at the mention of the castle. His expression must change drastically. Lancelot's eyes flick over and away again before quickly coming back. He levers himself up abruptly. "What is it?"

 

"It's just - Morgana," he finally admits, sighing. "I know she's taking advantage of Arthur's absence and stirring up fear and hatred."

 

"The _Lady_ Morgana?" His tone is incredulous and Merlin is sick to death of people falling for the façade of the fragile noblewoman.

 

His voice has a bitter edge when he responds. "The Lady Morgana is a traitor to Camelot. She helped Morgause plan the most recent attack."

 

Lancelot's mouth hangs open as he stares at Merlin. "She… _why_? By all the spirits, why would she do that to the family who took her in as their ward?"

 

This unhappy tale Merlin knows only too well. "She has magic, Lancelot. Like me." His thoughts snarl together in his head, caught up in the myriad threads of what might have been. Without the secrets he had kept, without the boundaries of status. Without the death of a young queen and the river of blood unleashed in her wake.

 

What could Morgana have been without the shackles of the present?

 

He tries to push the fantasies away. There is only this world, and Morgana has made her choices. She'd made it clear whose side she’s on. And as much as he hates it, the line has been drawn with himself and Arthur on one side, and Morgana and Morgause on the other. The people of Camelot, peasants and sorcerers and nobles and druids and everyone included, are stranded somewhere in the ghastly abyss between them. There is no convenient, stark line to be drawn among them. If Morgana has her uprising, the usurpation that he has no doubt is the goal of her machinations, the country will be torn asunder.

 

Lancelot's face creases with worry. "What are you going to do, Merlin?"

 

Doubt creeps into the crevices of his mind. A tangible, living parasite. "I don't know," he replies. "I really don't know."

 

 

 


End file.
